


A matter of brain

by egmon73



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad Parenting, Brain Surgery, Friends to Lovers, Handicap, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Major Illness, Suicidal Thoughts, minor johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-25 11:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14976380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/pseuds/egmon73
Summary: When illness strikes, it does not matter whether you are the British Government or a random citizen; it can hurt badly, sometimes deadly. In the following, the events taking place during a bit more than a year of the lives of Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes unfold. Lives they try to merge despite the adversities and trauma.This is not a WIP, it is a finished and betaed story updated regularly.





	1. how a life can change in few minutes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brooklyn09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklyn09/gifts).



> This story would not be here without the amazing kindness of the most epic of all betas: brooklyn09 (@lilynevin on Tumblr). My beta is a warm-hearted kind person who took a lot of her time to read and correct the 50k+ of this thing. Thank you so much (and read her stories, she is great). Thanks also to black_dawn for the support. She astonishingly believe I can write.  
> TRIGGER WARNING: this is not a completely happy story, although I think it is still a rather hopeful one. Please be aware that:  
> \- There are very very explicit suicidal thoughts;  
> \- It deals with several (not gory) medical procedures and handicap;  
> \- There is a lot of sex (chapters 7-9);  
> \- There are examples of parental … nonsense;  
> \- It is long (for me, somewhere around 52k), this chapter is the smallest of all.  
> Further, English is my third language. Although my beta is amazing, all remaining mistakes are mine.

Fear can be good. It can boost people’s defences, trigger the survival instinct, and activate the production of adrenaline to push the heart to pump quicker and to speed up breathing. This is known as the fight or flight response. The human body is totally awake, reactive, and able to deliver unexpected athletic performance even by the most lumbering of individuals.

Mycroft can deal with fear. He has mastered its use substantially to perfection, as a tool to obtain what Queen and Country asked him to secure. Each human being has at least one pressure point, to be masterfully deduced and exploited; no one is better than him in this. His skills are carefully used when necessary and he has consistently obtained the desired results.

Mycroft also knows how to withstand fear. Although he despises legwork, before occupying his current minor position in the British Government, he had performed his fair share of it, during which he had been kidnapped and tortured on several occasions. He had learned how to cope with the unknown, the pain, and the fear of both, and he succeeded quite well. He definitely does not want to repeat the experience. Nonetheless, he is almost certain that his endurance and control have not wavered too much.

Terror is something different. He has never fully experienced terror before. The closest he got to it in his adulthood first had been when Sherlock had been hospitalized for an overdose and it was not immediately clear whether he was going to survive. He remembers the intense feelings, his widened eyes, his ragged and harsh breathing. He recalls how his hands trembled at his sides and how he had to force himself to stifle a scream. Outside the room where Sherlock had been hospitalized, his legs had been frozen into place for a while, refusing to move, until the sound of the footsteps of the approaching doctor managed to snap him back to reality. Later on, there had been the Sherrinford incident and the madness of Eurus. It had badly undermined his defenses, but the causes of the debacle were known, the consequences devastating but predictable, a damage-containment plan possible.

This time it is worse, definitely worse. He feels as if he is losing control, that impeccable, absolute control which is his hallmark. The Ice Man. In this very moment, he wishes it were true; it would be a relief to have no feelings at all. His jaw drops in a silent scream of horror. He can hear the thumping of his heart against his chest and his rapid breathing. He can feel the oxygen flooding in and out of his lungs and the sweat forming on his palms. His thoughts are awkwardly slow, as if they have to find their way through a sea of molasses before surfacing to consciousness.

Thus, he analyzes, terror might be a kind of madness that clouds coherent thinking and reduces humans into shaking powerless beings having the consistency of jellyfish. His fingers are curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm, while the other hand holds the source of all the misery.

So hilarious. All this is due to two fucking words on a sheet of paper. Two fucking words, which are now indelibly carved on his retinas after having read the response of the latest examination. Two fucking undeniable words, delivered by the best center in the country, where the professionals are of the highest standard. They have to be, to be used by MI5 and MI6 personnel. _Anaplastic Astrocytoma_. Vulgarly called brain cancer, and not a forgiving one. 

***

**_4 weeks earlier_ **

“Please, come in" he commands, without even looking at the door. He keeps typing at his desk. He has to finish the negotiations contract draft by tomorrow and, unfortunately, he is not as proficient in Mandarin, and in particular in its Lan–Yin dialect, as he is in Cantonese. Mistakes are however intolerable and thus he needs to ponder every single word. He definitely has to improve his knowledge of the language and, after the trip, he will make sure to have some updated dictionaries and grammar books purchased. Maybe he should also find a vetted native speaker for some refinement of his conversation skills.

Anthea enters his office, holding a small briefcase and lays it on a free spot on his desk. “I am sorry, Sir, but the flight tomorrow has been rescheduled to 6.30 a.m. from Heathrow. They need you as soon as possible, it seems," she states in a professional but apologetic tone.

Mycroft rotates the chair on which he is sitting to face his assistant, looking at her with concealed fondness. “I have almost finished everything, Anthea. Flying in the morning instead of the evening is acceptable, given the situation. I assume you have already collected all documents needed.”

“Yes, Sir, everything is in the briefcase. A car is arranged for you tomorrow to be at your house at 4 a.m. All documents are catalogued according to your instructions. I will be waiting for you directly at the airport, before security. Do you need anything else?” she asks, looking at him, with an almost imperceptible smug quirk of the lips.

He briefly mentally reviews his schedule and answers, "No, thank you. Your services have been satisfactory as usual. Please, go home. I will leave soon too, once I have finalized this last draft. It is already 8 p.m. and I assume you need to prepare for the trip, too. See you tomorrow then.”

“Thank you, Sir. We are not expected to have to remain there for longer than one week, so I do not have much to prepare and anyhow, as you are aware, I am substantially always ready." Her voice switches into a softer tone and continues, “Don’t stay too long. You need to sleep too and we need you at your best in the coming days.” She waits for a few seconds to see whether an answer is going to come, and when none is delivered, she turns and leaves the room without adding a word. Her steps are almost noiseless on the wooden parquet of Mycroft’s office floor despite the high heels she is wearing. She knows that conversations have to be kept to a minimum with her boss, no time wasted in unnecessary information. Time is of the essence and squandering time is substantially a sin. 

After the door is closed, Mycroft allows his lips to form a small smile. Anthea is his most valuable assistant, the best he has ever had and he is definitely going to keep her for as long as possible. She is going to be his most probable successor when he decides to retire, her training being almost finished. He cares for her sometimes more than he should for a colleague, but she deserves it. They have always kept their relationship at a strict formal level, although sometimes advices of a more personal nature have been exchanged. “ _Yes, she is the right choice",_ he thinks, the small smile still on his face.   

After an extra half hour of typing the draft, it is time to prepare everything for the next days trip. There is not much to be done, most of the documents have already been organized by Anthea and the rest is saved in his laptop. He can finally leave the office so he sends a text to summon his driver. He has 10 minutes before its arrival, enough time to stop at the bathroom. The day has been tiring and some fresh water on his face as well as on his hands could be a reinvigorating pleasure before heading home. The bathroom is for his own personal use, of course, and stocked with all his preferred products, such as a nicely mint scented soap he has now in mind. Mycroft rises from the chair and walks towards the bathroom door, which is just behind his desk in the corner of the room. It is partially hidden by a bookshelf so as not to be completely visible from the entrance of the office. The door’s colour, being identical to the color of the wall, is already disguising it in part.

After few steps, Mycroft feels light-headed, the room slightly spinning around him, and his movements become uncoordinated. He stops and holds onto one of the shelves to maintain his balance. Although he is still, he nonetheless feels unsteady and suddenly he is aware that his right leg is getting numb and not supporting his weight anymore. Slightly stuck, but still having strength in his arms, he slowly lowers himself to the ground using the shelves as supports, until he is sitting on the floor in front of the bathroom door. He has no idea about what is going on, and he continuously shifts between being worried and puzzled, without much control of it. After an undefined number of minutes, his head clears and he starts feeling that his leg is going back to normal. Mycroft rises, still perplexed, and checks the functionality of his limbs, standing with all his weight first on one foot and then on the other, at the same time flexing his muscles. He is almost sure he ate something for breakfast and normally lack of sugar does not have this strong effect on him. Not having something in his stomach for days is not something so rare. He tries to recollect how much he has slept during the week, but nothing seems particularly abnormal to him. He has never slept much in general and he does not feel particularly tired. In addition, in the last compulsory yearly physical check-up, the doctor did not observe anything out of the ordinary. Maybe he is just getting old, he concludes, middle age affecting his joints. He should get up from his chair and move his legs more often during the day. Maybe this way he can avoid this sudden numbness and lack of balance. There is however not much time to waste in further analyses of the event. The car is coming in a few minutes, there is a plane to catch, and he has a job to do.

***

The next morning, Mycroft and Anthea depart from Heathrow towards an unnamed location in China. A week of talks takes place, where Mycroft has to use his best skills not only to achieve the previously agreed goals, but in particular to minimize the side effects of a diplomatic incident. There are some politicians, he thinks, that should simply smile in front of the cameras, be covered by make-up and give beautiful speeches, but leave the real work and negotiations to the _professionals_. He is tired, almost to the level of being exhausted, and angry with brainless amateurs that, due to their immense stupidity, can create international havoc. He wants to go home, and sleep in his own bed because it is almost impossible for him to sleep in others. He wants to use his bathroom, which is almost germ-free, or at least contains only his own bacteria, and he needs a cup of real black tea, not green tea.

The return flight to England is boring and just too long. Luckily, it is a direct flight to London and therefore the waste of time is minimized. The usual black car brings him swiftly home, and Mycroft allows himself to utter a small satisfactory groan of pleasure when he enters the main door. He starts loosening his tie and removing his coat, when he sees a black curtain falling in front of his eyes. Mycroft blinks a couple of times and – without even noticing – loses consciousness and collapses onto the floor.

         


	2. Greg makes an entrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please see trigger warnings in chapter 1

 

“A life worth living” has many possible interpretations, none right or wrong. What makes life acceptable is dependent on many things - the person’s values and ideas, on their vision of the future, maybe even on their religious beliefs. Basically, on what the person considers to be the acceptable bare minimum for a dignified existence. And that minimum can vary so much.

Dying is pretty easy, the human body is so fragile. The only ones who suffer from a person’s death are those who stay, not the one who leaves. Thus, Mycroft is not scared of dying, by a bullet for example – as he has always thought – or by a stroke. He can even accept an illness slowly reducing his physical capabilities till he slowly fades and then disappears. He can bear to see his body weakening and even suffering, his tolerance to pain being pretty high by training.

Mycroft is aware of the fact that he has very few redeeming qualities. His main one, his substantially only one, is his brain. His parents drummed this concept clearly, repeatedly, into his head since a very young age and they convinced him of it. His logical intelligence is the only aspect that has a value in his persona, it is not as good as Eurus’, but it is adequate. It is the only aspect of him that maybe his parents consider to be better than in Sherlock.

_“Look at your brother, Mycie! He is so lithe and lively!”  Sherlock was running in the garden trying to catch a butterfly. “And he is so talented! His tutor said that his level with the violin is equal or even superior to that of students 10 years older than him! He could do it professionally,” his mother was praising._

_“Yes, Mother, I am sure he will become incredibly proficient at it”._

_“You should apply yourself more, Mycie! It is important to excel, to keep the Holmes’ reputation high! You need to lose weight first of all, and you need to learn how to interact with others, your brother cannot always take care of you”._

_\--_

_“Yes, Mother, Sherlock is right, I am sorry, I am gay”._

_“Oh Mycie, I am not that disappointed. It is a bit disgusting, I mean thinking about that pervert activity. But at least men are attracted to power.  You can achieve power because your brain is acceptable, so maybe someone can be attracted to you. "_

_\--_

_“Mycie, are you saying that you cannot tell me which position you hold in the Government because it is classified? Are you sure, my dear? We understand if you did not manage to get that high in the hierarchy. We never had too high expectations for you. Don’t you think you can use that brain of yours a bit more productively?”_

His value is given by his brain, without it he is nothing. And now his own body wants to damage the most indispensable organ he has from the inside. He is not easily tricked by medical jargon, he is aware what a type III cancer diagnosis means and the possible consequences of it. Vision loss, paralysis, but - more worryingly - change of personality, loss of memory. It could affect his intelligence, behaviour, ability to use logic, decision-making skills, judgment, moods, inhibitions, or planning abilities. Effectively, it will destroy him. He does not need to go through this. He does not want to. He might end it now. He does not want to lose the only thing that makes his life acceptable, which determines his worth as a person because it is what the rest of the world appreciates of him.

Maybe, giving up and stopping the ordeal this very moment is really the best solution. Sherlock is now more stable and mature. His relationship with Dr Watson has helped him immensely. He can even say that his brother is happy now. Mycroft smiles at the thought. He has always considered happiness to be an unreachable chimera for both of them, but his little brother has shown him that he can be wrong. _“Well done, Sherlock, you deserve this, you have the right to a good friend and partner.”_ In any case, Sherlock does not need him much anymore. Further, the control of Eurus has been given to other government officials after the debacle of Sherrinford, and his parents have never liked him that much. No, no one will really miss him. Anthea will take his position, she is not completely prepared yet, but she is brilliant enough to find the proper resources to get help. The safety of the country is ensured as well.

Yes, he should simply kill himself; it sounds like such an easy decision. Benefits outweigh disadvantages, which is how he has always made his decisions before. There is this damn survival instinct, however, that does not want to cooperate. Terror of living and terror of committing suicide are warring with each other. Terror simply overwhelms his body, making him extremely exhausted and blocking his will. Terror acts as a knife which is constantly twisting in his gut, or as a constant hammer on his head. It makes him feel dizzy or want to throw up.   ~~~~

He could ask someone else to kill him. If his survival instinct is so strong, he may be able to pay someone to just kill him. Mycroft freezes. “ _Oh Lord, why am I that slow? Is the cancer already affecting my brain this much? I do not need to ask someone to kill me. Due to the possible effects which may come in the near future, I need to activate Operation Cobra_." Mycroft rushes to text Anthea.

***

**3 weeks earlier**

“ _I definitely have to comment about the quality of the beds to the ambassador, this is not acceptable, this mattress is harder than stone and today during the meetings my back won’t stop hurting. The ambassador will hear my voice."_ Mycroft turns and shifts to find a more comfortable position. “ _Bugger, I must have thrown the blanket somewhere on the ground during the night while finding a better position."_ Mycroft extends his hand to explore the surface around him, it is surprisingly cold and rough, it does not seem to be the surface of a bedsheet. Mycroft opens his eyes and looks around. He is lying on the ground of his hallway directly in front of the entrance door. His coat is on the floor too, not far from his feet. After few seconds, Mycroft remembers the events of yesterday – _was it yesterday?_ The arrival at the airport, the car transport home and then the black curtain descending on his eyes. Mycroft looks at his watch. 5.15 a.m. He was on the floor for more than 5 hours. “ _This is rather unusual. I must fix an appointment with the ophthalmologist to check whether there is any problem with my eyes, that blackness was somewhat worrying."_ He texts Anthea, who after a few hours replies and an appointment is scheduled for him in the late morning. 

***

“Mr Holmes, your eyesight is excellent for a man of your age. Furthermore, your eyes are healthy. Internal pressure is low, and the retina is substantially perfect. I have checked the fundus and I don’t see any sign of tears or growth of abnormal blood vessels. There is a slight hint of the beginning of a cataract in your right eye, but the opaque area is minimal and I think you can still wait a few years before replacing the crystalline lens. The only suggestion I have for you, something I strongly recommend, is to use glasses when you read and in particular when you are in front of the computer. Your presbyopia is not negligible and without them you are now putting a lot of strain on your eyes by forcing your muscles to overcompensate." The doctor interrupts his speech and scribbles something on a piece of paper. “This is the prescription for the lenses you need. They are pretty standard and you can find them at any optician.”

After a handshake, the doctor’s bill is settled by Anthea, Mycroft exits the polyclinic, feeling older than when he entered. “ _I don’t need a pair of glasses. Or at least I don’t need them yet. I will look older than I am,”_ Mycroft thinks, discouraged. A pair of glasses is not going to defeat him, so Mycroft asks his driver to stop at an optician on the way to his office. He will order the glasses he needs and the unpleasant task can then be forgotten. Entering the shop, he is instantly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of different frames hanging on the walls, in different materials, sizes and colours, and Mycroft already feels slightly defeated. “ _Maybe I could ask for help,"_ he thinks, while handing the prescription to the approaching clerk. The clerk explains that with his prescription, there are pre-made glasses, lenses already mounted on a frame. They are hanging on the stand in the left hand corner. Mycroft feels relieved, the choice is much more limited. He reaches the stand and starts trying different frames, carefully cleaning them first with a sanitizing wipe. You never know who has touched them before.

_“Blue enhances your natural eye colour.”_

_“Gregory, the colour of my shirt is not able to alter the colour of my eyes, they do not change colour depending on what I wear."_

_“Come on, Mycroft! You look good in it and don’t start explaining some weird theory of light reflection, refraction, what word did you use last time? Everyone is going to agree with me despite physics."_

_Mycroft looked at the inspector sitting in front of him at The Diogenes for their regular meeting to talk about his brother Sherlock. Seeing the honesty in his eyes, he felt a sudden warmth spreading in his cheeks._

Blue it will be, then. In an impulse, Mycroft selects a blue metal frame and tries it on. In the stand, there is also an eye chart and he starts reading. Indeed, the effort to read even the smaller letters is definitely reduced by the glasses, he is forced to admit. He exits the shop with a pair of glasses in a plastic bag, contacts the car and heads towards The Diogenes.

***

**2 days earlier**

Every fortnight, on a Wednesday at the Diogenes, his regular meeting with Detective Inspector Lestrade takes place, unless work prevents it. The recurrent rendezvous had started many years ago, when the life of his brother Sherlock much depended on the cases Lestrade could give him. Thus, he needed a constant update of his brother’s actions. With the appearance of Dr Watson first and then with the development of Sherlock himself, the meetings were no longer Sherlock-related only. On the contrary, the amount of time they were discussing Sherlock was decreasing, and a pleasant conversation about any personal topic generally proposed by the detective inspector was replacing it. Mycroft reluctantly admits that his Wednesday evenings are classified as red by Anthea, reschedulable only in case of a grade II emergency or above.      

Mycroft is very aware of the fact that his meetings with the Inspector are not strictly necessary anymore and they are more a guilty pleasure of his. He enjoys talking to the man. Their gatherings are the only moments during his week in which he can have an open conversation. Moments in which no one is trying to use him or convince him to do something, and his defenses can be lowered a tiny bit. Lestrade is much more than he looks, his gruff aspect easily deceives. He is intelligent and is so comfortable with himself, in talking about any topic, in simply wearing his heart on his sleeve, that Mycroft often feels a sting of jealousy wishing to be allowed to do the same. Moreover, Lestrade is not interested nor attracted by the power he has. All in all, the man is loyal, honest and kind. Mycroft has not met many people having those characteristics, probably only one. On top of this, the Inspector is also incredibly handsome, although Mycroft is definitely convinced that he would have been charmed by him even if he had looked like an ogre. Yes, attracted to him. Mycroft a while ago had to admit to himself that he is beguiled by Lestrade, but he treats this information as sacredly as a state secret. He knows his value, he knows his place. Lestrade is not attracted by the only thing he can offer, and thus he has no intention to act on his inappropriate feelings. 

Lestrade arrives at the agreed time, completely soaked in water. He looks like he has had a swim with his clothes on, and he is leaving a trail of water on the floor of his office while he walks towards his desk. “Dear Lord, Gregory, what has happened to you? Your clothes are dripping wet.  Have you fallen in the Thames again following my brother?”

“No, nothing that serious, Mycroft. Your twat of a brother however decided to test some of his theories while we were in the victim's bathroom and he opened the shower while I was under it to collect evidence. This is the damn result of it! I wanted to go home to change, but then I remembered that there is an underground strike today and I’d have never made it. All cabs are fully booked, so I waited for your car. "

Greg is annoyed but not angry and is trying to remove some water from his face with a wet handkerchief. The result is smearing it more than drying it. Mycroft knows that the patience of the man is exemplary and that he is exerting all of it dealing with his brother for so many years. Lestrade will probably never understand how grateful he is for that. He has probably saved his brother, together with Dr Watson. 

“You should have informed me and the car would have brought you home first, or we could have postponed our meeting. I think you should take a shower while Anthea fetches some clothes for you. I certainly do not want for one of the Yard's finest to catch a cold while having a conversation with me” Mycroft says, while texting Anthea.

“And how is Anthea going to collect some clothes from my flat?” Greg asks, but then rises a hand saying “No, no need to answer that. I don’t want to be killed because I know flat-breaking-in secrets from the government." Before Mycroft can reply, Greg winks at him. Mycroft flushes and guides Greg towards his personal bathroom, pointing at the clean towels and toiletries.

Mycroft goes back to his desk and sits on the chair. He hears the water running behind the wall. He thinks about the man under the stream of water and suddenly he is …aroused. He feels incredibly embarrassed about it. It is definitely not proper to think about the Inspector in these terms and to get an erection while the poor detective is naked and showering in his office bathroom due to his brother’s antics. Mycroft knows that he has to distract his brain, otherwise the only image lingering there is that of the naked body of the DCI. The best distraction is work, so he takes out his glasses from their container and starts reading a report on the increase of wool export to Vietnam and its consequences. This emergency distraction works because he is so absorbed by it that he does not notice Gregory exiting the bathroom with a towel around his waist and nothing else.

“Mycroft, has Anthea arrived? If not, may I borrow some of your clothes in the meantime?”

Mycroft turns toward the male voice and he feels his blood quickly rerouting to his face and ears, which become very hot. He cannot take his eyes away from Gregory’s body and he knows the man will notice. Well, maybe not. Greg seems fascinated by something on his face, in particular on his nose, and he is very intent at looking at a specific spot there.

"They really suit you,” Greg utters with a grin. “Really, Mycroft. Where were you hiding them?”

Mycroft gets that he is talking about the glasses and – if possible – turns even redder. “I was not hiding them, as you say, Gregory. I just need them when I am tired, in order to read documents printed in small letters."

“Oh, don’t lie to me! I am just a couple of years older than you, and I know the problems with vision for reading, the middle getting soft, all that jazz very well! Do you think I don’t have glasses when I need to read too? You know, we middle-aged men…” and he smiles even more. Greg is not mocking him, he looks sincere as usual and Mycroft cannot stop staring.

There is a sudden flash of resolution in Greg’s eyes and the man approaches him, so devilishly handsome, clad in the small towel. He puts a hand on his, squeezes it gently and looks at Mycroft, determined and insecure at the same time. Mycroft is frozen in the chair, not believing what is happening, his heart beating frantically in his chest and his stomach doing summersaults on its own. He is trying to convince himself at least to squeeze back that tanned hand when he again sees the dark curtain falling in front of his eyes and he loses control of his body and mind.

Greg is looking at Mycroft who is not responding and he starts worrying whether he has dared too much. He really wants to move further with Mycroft, beyond friendship, but he has never been sure about the other man’s feelings. He saw however a certain appreciation this evening, even lust in the man’s eyes, so… His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by Mycroft’s body relaxing and sliding bonelessly from the chair. Greg’s eyes widen and he worryingly calls “Mycroft? What is going on?” He gets no answer, but the minor official’s body, now collapsed on the floor, is not unresponsive any more. On the contrary, there is a generalized stiffening. Greg reaches for Mycroft’s arm in order to shake him, but his hand is swatted by Mycroft’s leg. All the redhead’s limbs start a violent jerking and shaking. Shocked, Greg notes a liquid pool spreading between Mycroft’s legs.     

Greg wonders whether he should immediately call 999. He knows he should do it in any other standard situation, but Mycroft is not a standard man, a wrong action and national security may be threatened. He decides to call Anthea, who answers immediately.

"Inspector, I am heading towards Mr Holmes’ office with your clothes. Why are you c--“

“Anthea, please listen! Mycroft is on the floor, having what seems to be a seizure, he’s violently shaking and not respond-“

“Inspector, I’ll be there in 5 minutes with a team. Remove all objects around him so that he doesn’t harm himself," Anthea orders and closes the communication.

Greg is terrified, he is wondering whether Mycroft has epilepsy or any other medical condition, and whether this is a recurrent situation. He is glad that Anthea has taken the lead so well without any hesitation. He is worried to do the wrong movement in trying to help and thus harm Mycroft even more. Luckily, he does not have to ponder too much because Anthea and her team arrive immediately, assess the situation and transport Mycroft away on a stretcher. Greg tries to follow, but is immediately blocked by some massive squirrel looking guys and not even his shout of “Anthea!” changes the situation. All of a sudden, he realizes that he must look pretty ridiculous. He is still substantially naked, his bits barely covered by a towel.

He has to do something, so he steals some clothes from Mycroft’s office; they do not fit completely well but at least he is not indecent anymore. Not too surprisingly, he is transported home by a black car, which mysteriously appears when he tries to leave The Diogenes. Once there, he cannot stop being worried sick. He is pacing back and forth in his tiny flat, sending texts to Anthea every half hour. No response so far, not a call, not even a carrier pigeon or smoke signal. He understands that the main concern in this very moment is Mycroft and he may have been brought to a super-secret location, the name of which is much above his security clearance. However, Anthea knows very well what Mycroft means to him and he thought she was on his side.

_“Inspector?”_

_Greg heard a voice calling him while he was going to retrieve his car to go back to his flat. It was late but he had a lovely evening with Mycroft…. one of a series of lovely evenings to be honest. He turned back and saw Anthea walking towards him._

_"Yes?” he answered, rather reluctant to have a late night chat with her. In his opinion, the woman was creepy and as efficient as an expert killer._

_"Inspector please, it will take only a couple of minutes.”_

_Greg stopped and Anthea looked at him intensely almost like a Holmes, trying to decipher Greg did not know what. The DCI felt a shiver going down his spine. Again, the woman was frightening, and in his opinion he did nothing to deserve such an investigation, at the end of which, however, Anthea appeared to relax a bit._

_”I care for him, you know”._

_Greg felt a sudden weight in his stomach. “You mean that you and Mycroft are-“,_

_“No Inspector, not at all. Come on, I thought you were intelligent enough to get that my gender is of no interest for Mr Holmes. And, to be honest, your gender is of no appeal to me as well. Anyhow, I have an incommensurable debt towards him and I will protect him, always and regardless."_

_"Anthea, if this is the "Hurt him and I will kill you" speech, you have been misguided. There is nothing between Mycroft and myself, just a few companionable dinners or evenings discussing the younger Holmes and his shenanigans."_

_Anthea again looked at him searching for something, and probably finding some clues of it._

_“How many friends do you think he has, Inspector? How many people do you think he invites regularly to have dinner or chats with him at his club?"_

_“I have no clue Anthea, as I told you I don’t know Mycroft…” Greg silenced himself when he saw Anthea raising a hand._

_“Don’t give me that shit, Inspector. Normally people befriend Mr Holmes to obtain something, to use him, and of course he realizes it almost immediately. With you, it is different. He trusts you, and this is …almost unheard of. What do you want from him?”_

_Greg looked away and focus on the street lights instead. They both remained silent for a few minutes, small drops of rain started to fall down from the sky. Maybe honesty was the best approach._

_“I like him, Anthea. I would like to know him better. Mycroft is very difficult to understand and his enormous intelligence sometimes scares me. I admit I try to flirt with him here and there, but it doesn’t work. It’s either that he doesn’t understand it or that he can’t believe I’m really doing that. I don’t have a plan, honestly. In this very moment of my life, I enjoy his company without any ulterior motive. I like to have him as a friend, that is all I can say, and I don’t want to endanger this. It’s not easy to have good friends, you know?"_

_Anthea stared at him and sighed. “Inspector, Mr. Holmes is difficult to grasp in general, yes. His intelligence is way above average and his comprehension of diplomacy and political intrigues is extraordinary. But...”_

_Anthea looked at him again, and for the first time Greg noticed some nervousness in her behaviour. She raised her chin and continued._

_"He is a man too. With a man’s needs, although he is so good at denying them. I am in favour of your…association.” It was clear she was selecting her words very carefully. “As long as you make him happy, Inspector, I am on your side. Ask me, and I will do my best to make your life, Mr Holmes’ life, easier. I am paid for that, so don’t be shy. This is my phone number." She typed something on her Blackberry and Greg heard a beep on his mobile. Of course Anthea had his personal phone number. “I didn’t say all this lightly, Inspector. Don’t make me regret my decision."_

_Greg nodded, still slightly abashed by the conversation. Anthea disappeared quickly, moving amazingly fast on her high heels._

Greg has to admit, from that moment on, whatever he needed to surprise or help Mycroft, such as disguising an invitation to a birthday dinner as a PM meeting, or forcing him to take a day off because he worked non-stop for a month, he had a valued ally in Anthea in order to accomplish it. He needs that ally back, because he needs to know about Mycroft’s health and what is going on. Before he goes insane.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to StarsAndStitches whose comment is responsible for the redness that still lingers on my face!


	3. Anthea is more than what she seems to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please read the trigger warnings on chapter 1

Mycroft wakes up in a bed surrounded by several blinking monitors. The sheets are rough. He is so tired of uncomfortable beds. An IV is slowly dripping some saline-based solution into his arm and a strong smell of disinfectant permeates the air. _Hospital_ , he deduces. He has a terrible headache, just slightly moving his head is incredibly painful. He will ask for some painkillers as soon as he sees a nurse. Concentrating is hard. He is trying to recollect what has happened to understand why he is in a hospital bed, but his brain is failing him. He needs more data. There is a window in his room. Outside it is dark, he can see street lamps on. It must be night then, but even his generally accurate internal clock is malfunctioning. A nurse barges in the room without knocking and suddenly stops, realizing that his eyes are open.

“Mr Holmes, you are awake. How do you feel?” she asks, while efficiently wrapping his arm with a band to measure his temperature and blood pressure.

Instead of answering, Mycroft interrogates “Where am I? And what time is it? Who brought me here?"

“You apparently had a seizure, Mr Holmes, at least that is what the nice looking woman who brought you here said. After the symptoms’ subsided, you fell asleep. While sleeping, you had an emergency head scan and blood samples were taken. In the morning, a further battery of tests is waiting for you. You are at the London Bridge Hospital and it is 4.15 a.m."

Mycroft starts processing the given information, and the thought of Greg suddenly appears in his brain. He needs to text Anthea to get more details. In the meantime, without even asking, the nurse injects some painkiller directly in his IV.

***

Anthea shows up a few hours later, along with a bag containing all the items he might need for his hospital stay. He hired her for a reason. She debriefs Mycroft, quickly, telling him the facts. She had been called by the detective inspector and, when she arrived, she had found him moving uncontrollably on the floor, unconscious, having what appeared to be a seizure. She brought him to the MI6-affiliated hospital and afterwards went to the office to readjust his schedule for today and fix whatever possible. Anthea is efficient as usual, but she lingers a bit when describing the clothes, or better the lack thereof, of Lestrade. A flush of pink tinges Mycroft’s cheeks in reaction.

“He needed a shower, Anthea. And you were collecting his clothes. Did he stay in my office?”

“I asked a driver to bring him home. He was putting on some clothes he had found in your office while we were adjusting you in the stretcher. I must admit, after his call, his clothes were not a priority anymore and I left them somewhere. You should call him, Sir, he was extremely worried, but he kept a clear head and reacted appropriately, calling me instead of 999.” Anthea quiets for few seconds and looks at him gently. “How do you feel, Sir?”

“Tired. I hope to get home soon.” Mycroft admits.

A doctor enters the room in that moment. “Good morning, Mr Holmes.” She looks at Anthea, and asks whether she is allowed to continue talking in her presence.

“My assistant can get full disclosure, Doctor, " Mycroft confirms.

“Very well then. I am Dr Vishakha and I will be your physician while you are here. You had a seizure according to your assistant’s description of symptoms, validated by the status in which you arrived here. A CT scan was performed to rule out any pathologies which would have required immediate surgery." The doctor pauses and straightens a bit, looking Mycroft in the eyes. “The scan has revealed a mass in your brain, Mr Holmes. In order to make a complete diagnosis, you must undergo several further tests this morning.” At these words, fear explodes inside Mycroft’s brain. He pales and clenches his fists in the sheets, without uttering a word. “I cannot add anything at this stage. We will find out more at the end of the tests. I will begin with a neurological examination followed by a MRI scan with a contrast dye. I will also probably request an MRS scan, which measures chemical and mineral levels in your brain. After we get the results of your tests, my colleagues and I will provide you with our best opinions on the nature of the mass. "

***

Mycroft hates hospitals. Not only must germs be happily proliferating in every single corner due to the amount of illnesses carried by patients, but also the green hospital gown makes him look very ridiculous. He is exhausted and would like to lie down on his bed. The doctor's sentence, "There is a mass in your brain”, constantly resonates in his head. Mycroft is aware that it is too early to make a complete assessment of the situation; there is still too much data missing and unpinned variables. However, an unwanted nagging blade of fear is already intruding in all his thoughts. He shakes his head. First things first, he will let the doctors finish their medical evaluation and then he will perform his analysis. He is the best at it.

Mycroft looks at his mobile. There are 5 missed calls and 10 messages from the detective inspector. Sadness creeps into Mycroft’s thoughts. However, he decides to take care of it later too, because no conclusion can be reached yet.

***

“Mr Holmes, for the moment we are finished. We now have to wait for the results from the lab and from my colleagues,” Dr Vishakha is explaining. “There is unquestionably a mass in your brain, however, its exact nature and possible treatments can be considered and discussed only after the results are available,” she continues. Mycroft is only partly listening. He feels humiliated by the hours spent following doctors’ orders. He is not used to blindly following other people’s instruction, in particular when he has been stripped of his physical armour. He has to wear this damn gown all the time and not his more comforting suit. He feels uneasy, mortified, and he can almost see bacteria crawling under his skin.

 “Perfect then, I will wait for the outcome in my office, please have it sent there. I have some work to finish." Mycroft throws off the blankets, intending to get up and dressed, but the doctor's words stop him. “I advise against it, Mr Holmes. Seizures or fainting can happen again. I would recommend that you remain in the hospital until the diagnosis is given."

“My assistant will monitor me, do not worry Doctor Vishakha. Unfortunately, I do not have much time to spare and important matters are awaiting my consideration."

Dr Vishakha shakes her head, but does not try to stop him. She just looks worried and resigned at the pile of preliminary results already gathered.

***

As predicted, as soon as he is back in front of the computer, Mycroft returns to full working mode and manages to squeeze the whole incident into a very tiny corner of his brain. Work is his favourite drug. The afternoon unfolds without any other incidents, until a messenger from London Bridge arrives with an envelope. Anthea accepts the parcel and knocks on Mycroft’s door. She has done it many times a day for many years. Today, however, it feels different. Anthea noticed the concerned look of the doctor and she knows that they are used to seeing rather desperate situations. However, that look is not often present in their eyes. She is worried, and for the first time in her long connection with Mr Holmes, she regrets not having pushed the boundaries of their relationship beyond business. She cares for him, cares probably too much, but she cannot help it. He is the closest thing she has ever had to a father figure. She knows he cares too, in his special, detached way. Anthea takes a deep breath and straightens her spine. It is not time for regret, it is time to act and show that indeed she is not just his assistant. Maybe a tiny fraction of that debt can be repaid, although it may cost her career.

Business-like as usual, Anthea enters Mr Holmes’ office and announces: “Sir, the results of your medical tests from this morning have arrived."

For a few seconds, Mycroft does not answer. Then slowly, as if he were somewhere else, he replies, “Thank you, Anthea, please leave it on my desk. I will look at it after I finish this,” and continues typing.

Anthea’s heart aches for the man, so she adds, “Sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade has called several times. He is inquiring about your health." She gets no answer. She waits a little bit. She would like to shake her boss with some sassy sentence, but she stays silent and leaves.

After about 30 minutes, Mycroft opens the envelope. 

Anthea does not hear anything anymore from her boss's office; she is not called in again. She knows that this is not a good sign. Happy news is easy to share, it does not crack any façade, it can be delivered coolly and with some easy British humour to diminish its importance. Delivering bad news means showing an implicit weakness, offering an opportunity for a blow.

***

Anthea is in bed. She is trying to sleep, but the events of the day do not allow her to do it easily. She runs through the occurrences of the day in her mind. She does not know anything more than “There is a mass in your brain”, but she knows, she feels, that this is not going to end well. She had hoped in a confidence from her boss, that he would have shared the medical report. She knows that on paper she is his assistant, nothing more, but this is not the complete truth, at least not for her.

She is immersed in these considerations when she receives a message on her mobile. It is on her bedside table, never off, her job does not allow an off line status. She looks at the screen. Mr Holmes is texting. “ _Mr Holmes does not text,_ ” is her first reaction. Anthea’s stomach drops and feels even worse when she notices that there are still a dozen unopened messages from Greg Lestrade. 

She opens her boss’ message, which contains only a few words: “Activate Operation Cobra”. Anthea feels the blood in her veins freeze and immediately jumps out of bed, throwing on some clothes on her way to the car.

***

This time she does not knock, it is 2.30 a.m. and her boss has gone insane. She rushes in and strides purposefully towards his desk, where Mr Holmes is still typing. Probably his fingers are doing it automatically.

“Give me a reason, Sir!" she shouts.

Mycroft turns towards her. He is pale, incredibly pale, and his bloodshot eyes are scanning her face. She sees fear in the blue-grey orbs when he starts speaking. “I gave you an order. I do not have to explain the reasons behind it. "  

“You are wrong, Sir. Operation Cobra is under my total control. I decide when it is needed and I decide how it is executed. I have the full responsibility of it, and I have sworn to the British Government that I will do everything in my power to accomplish it. However, in this very moment, I don’t see any need to activate it. "

“You don’t understand!” Mycroft barks in despair.

“Indeed, I don’t. Maybe you would care to explain." Anthea is getting angry, she feels the anger spreading in her body in waves and she is both scared and proud of her reaction in front of Mr Holmes. She has never challenged or disobeyed him, but she is not a doll.

“It is cancer, Anthea! Incurable. It will devastate my ability to judge situations, it will change my personality. I am a ticking bomb." Mr Holmes is not looking at her, but at the floor, shoulders sagged in defeat. Anthea in the meantime is processing the news, internally panicking but aware that she is supposed to keep a cool head whatever happens. Silence descends on the room like a blanket, and Anthea is welcoming the short time she has to think and evaluate a proper response. She has to gamble.

“Since when do you have a medical degree, Sir?”

Mycroft looks up at her and seems annoyed. “I don’t need a medical degree to understand what an incurable cancer is, Anthea."

“Maybe not, Sir, but you need one to understand the prognosis, the progression of the disease and the possible treatments to manage it. I won’t start any operation until I see a full medical evaluation of your status and opinions on possible therapies and their benefits versus contraindications."

“I have no intention of going through this, Anthea." Her boss' voice is shaking.

“I have no intention of starting Operation Cobra without it," she replies, resolute. Anthea is forcing herself to get a grip on her feelings and avoid crying. Mycroft is glaring coldly at her.

“Very well, you will have one tomorrow, I will go back to London Bridge.”

She cannot believe that her boss can look so defeated as she leaves his office.

***

Mycroft hates hospitals with all his heart. Twice inside one in two days is well above his tolerance threshold. Dr Vishakha is already waiting for him in her office and now he is sitting in a chair in front of her desk. She has been talking for 15 minutes already “….early results from the ongoing clinical “CATNON” study show benefit of concurrent radiation with temozolomide and monthly maintenance or radiation followed by monthly temozolomide. Proton beam therapy is an alternative to the standard radiation, which provides superior dose distribution for higher dosage at the tumor and avoids healthy tissue and reduces overall toxicity…..” He does not need all his brainpower to understand what the doctor is saying. He can, while listening to her, explore all the consequences of the presented facts and develop scenarios.  “…due to the seizure you have experienced, you should be treated with anti-epilepsy drugs, although special precaution must be taken to achieve optimal dosing when you start chemotherapy to maintain the effectiveness. There are no strict guidelines that establish an antiseizure medication of choice, however, there has been a general consensus over levetiracetam….”.

He lets the doctor finish and then takes over. “Summarizing, Dr Vishakha, you are basically telling me that I need brain surgery to remove the cancer as much as possible, preceded and followed by radiotherapy and chemotherapy. All this will not really cure me, but it will stop the cancer for a while, until it reappears. Further, due to the size and position of the mass, I will most probably suffer motor impairment for the rest of my life." Mycroft’s voice is cold and controlled, as if he is talking about someone else and not about his future.

The doctor gives him a compassionate look. “A motor deficit will be present, Mr Holmes, but the extent of it is not foreseeable yet. The greatest deficits are frequently seen immediately after surgery or during radiation and chemotherapy, after which remarkable improvement may occur. You will be referred for rehabilitation services and your quality of life can be vastly improved with simple rehabilitation measures.”

Mycroft sighs: “What about my brain capabilities and the ability to speak?”

“Your type of surgery will be performed while you are awake, Mr. Holmes." Mycroft's eyes widen slightly and the doctor allows a small smile to show on her face. "Yes, don’t worry, it is a standard procedure, you will be awake but sedated. The importance of awake brain surgery is in removing the tumor without damaging critical parts of the brain. You will be asked to perform easy tasks while the neurosurgeon is operating to map your brain functions so that the surgery will not result in a significant loss of them." She pauses and then, noticing Mycroft’s uneasiness, continues. “Your speech may be impaired, but nothing that some good speech therapy can’t fix almost completely. Your mobility on the right side, particularly your limbs, and their sensitivity might be permanently damaged. I cannot fully predict the effects of the surgery on your brain functions and your personality. I believe however that you will still be a genius afterwards." At this last sentence, Mycroft releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. 

Mycroft returns to the Diogenes with a thick envelope containing the full report of the medical procedure he is supposed to undergo. He sees Anthea at her desk before entering his office and places the envelope in front of her. In that very moment, observing the petite brunette on her mobile, he develops an utterly inappropriate need to hug her, a feeling which is immediately dismissed. Anthea raises her eyes from the screen of her Blackberry and mutely asks permission to open it. “This is what you wanted, just do what you have to do,” Mycroft says, and without waiting for an answer, enters his office closing the door behind him. He is becoming weak, he tells himself.

Anthea opens the envelope and starts reading. Among all the medical words, she perceives the seriousness of the diagnosis. Brain surgery and all the rest…. She cannot let her boss face all this alone. Her first thought is to call the Detective Inspector, but she knows that it is not her story to tell. On the other hand, she also knows that Mr Holmes will not call him. The Inspector has not given up and is constantly bombarding her with calls and messages. Slowly, Anthea folds the papers back in the envelope, and puts it in a lockable drawer of her desk. She inhales deeply, knocks on Mycroft’s door, and enters.

Mycroft has not switched on many lamps in the office. A suffused light that strangely enough makes him look small surrounds him. Anthea gently begins, “I still don’t see a reason to start operation Cobra, Sir." Mycroft looks at her and blinks a couple of times. He stares at her as if she betrayed him. He sinks even deeper in the chair and silently nods.

***

Three weeks of preparation for surgery follow. The amount of pills, which Mr Holmes has to take every day, is appalling. Three weeks in which Anthea sees her boss retreating more and more inside himself, while getting thinner and thinner and developing a staggering sickly appearance. He does not speak beyond the very strictly necessary. He often stares in front of him, looking at nothing. Anthea tries to talk to him, but she receives resigned looks back when she is lucky, angry ones when she is not. She also knows that he has not contacted Lestrade since that evening of the first seizure. The detective inspector has called her many times, and, at a certain point, she took pity on the man, answering. However, she could only tell him that Mr Holmes did not want to be disturbed.

Two seizures took place and two hospitalizations followed. During the second one, Mycroft looked simply so apathetic that Anthea understood she had to do something. She is sincerely scared that her boss might kill himself.

One evening, while he was working in the office, Anthea decided that it was now or never. The fact that one week before brain surgery he is working is heart shattering. She looks at his long and thin silhouette from the door and quietly enters the office. “Call him, Mr Holmes."

Magically, at the softly spoken words, Mycroft stops typing. He does not ask what she is talking about, he only coldly replies, “This is none of your business,” and resumes typing.

“Sir, my business, the job I am paid for, is to make your life easier so that you can use your amazing intellect at the service of the British Government. In this very moment, it seems to me that you don’t value your life much and you are not fighting for it." Anthea is sure that this is going to be the last sentence she pronounces in the role of Mr Holmes’ assistant.

Mycroft turns his head and gifts her with his Holmesian laser gaze. “If you have not understood, Anthea, I am dying. And I will die either because of cancer, or due to Operation Cobra. There is nothing to value or to fight for.” 

“This is not what I have read in the report. Nothing indicates that you will lose your brain functions. Life expectancy can be long!” Anthea is unstoppable.

Mycroft stands up. “Anthea, you have clearly forgotten your role and your boundaries. Please leave."

Anthea cannot. “Mr Holmes, life is not only work. I understand that maybe your family is not the most supportive, but I swear you have a lot to live for. People who care about you. If you just called Detective Inspector Les-. "

“Out! " Mycroft shouts. All his body is shaking, his face red, his knuckles white from the strength in which he is clenching his fists. He is standing in front of her, stretched in all his 1.85 m, but she is not scared or discouraged from her intent. She locks her eyes with his, tightens her lips and gets out.

Immediately outside, after having closed the door, she calls Greg Lestrade.

***

Anthea could not tell Lestrade the truth, but she simply asked him to come to the Diogenes, whenever he was available. Mr Holmes is essentially living there, so the time does not matter. She does not say anything to her boss, there is no point in it.

Lestrade shows up the next morning, looking completely puzzled and maybe even a bit hurt.  Understandable, but her first priority is Mr Holmes, as it should be. So, she just pushes the detective inspector into Mr Holmes' office, closes the door and crosses her fingers.

It is a total failure. Lestrade exits a few seconds afterwards and she hears her boss shouting even from outside. Lestrade sees her and shakes his head. “He doesn’t want to talk to me."

Anthea stares at him and then pinches the bridge of her nose. With a determined voice, she says, “This will cost me my job,” and hands him the envelope with the medical documentation.

Greg reads it several times and replies “Sorry, I don’t understand. These are medical records, but I don’t know what they mean, besides the fact that it seems very serious."

Anthea looks resigned. “He is dying, Inspector," she says as she takes the envelope back. “He has brain cancer."

Greg freezes, not able to breathe. “It can’t be! He has the best experts of this country, no of the world, at his disposal. Surely something can be done!” he cries at her, incredulity and despair in his voice.

“There is not much, and what can be done he does not want to undertake. He has given up." Anthea looks at him, this time almost pleading. “I was hoping you could convince him otherwise. "

Greg takes several minutes to process all this information, and then makes his decision. He nods at Anthea and goes back in Mycroft’s office.

Mycroft is sitting in his chair, where Greg had left him, but he does not look like the Ice Man anymore. His shoulders are sagged and he looks utterly defeated. “I told you that I don’t want to be disturbed, Anthea, unless there is a Class III emergency and I have not heard the PM calling." Greg gets closer to the speaking man, who keeps on looking down at his lap. As Mycroft raises his head and notices the inspector, a flash of annoyance crosses his face. “Inspector? What are you still doing here? We have terminated our conversation. If you don’t leave now, I will be forced to call security." Mycroft trails off as he sees the inspector approaching him without faltering or slowing. Mycroft decides to stand up and raise his voice, but he is grabbed by the silver fox, who pushes him against the wall and kisses him as if his life depended on it.

Mycroft cannot believe that Greg’s lips are crushing on his. He cannot formulate coherent thoughts in his head while the inspector is derailing any attempt at it. Mycroft feels his body responding to the kiss, hugging the inspector with unexpected strength. A spark of meaningless hope is igniting in his heart and the burn of it brings him back from the out of body experience. He stops kissing back and starts pushing the inspector away. Greg stops and steps back, looking embarrassed and hurt.

“What ….what is the meaning of this, Inspector?” Mycroft falters.

Greg looks at first embarrassed and then resolute. "You kissed me back” is the only sentence he pronounces.

It was Mycroft’s turn to look embarrassed, turning slightly red in his cheeks. “Inspector, I don’t think this is advisable. You don’t understand...."

“Yes, it is true, Mycroft, I don’t understand." The voice of the inspector is rising in volume. “I definitely don’t. I was Gregory, and I’ve been Gregory for a long while, as long as I can remember, and now all of a sudden we go back to Detective Inspector. I can understand that you might not be interested in a relationship with me. I get, it, it’s fine. Well not really fine but… But I was your friend, I am your friend, you can declare to the world as much as you want that you don’t do friends, however what we have is a friendship, for God’s sake! Taking care of each other is part of it. You have my trust and I thought I had yours. Why on Earth are you shutting me out now? What have I done to deserve this? Why are we back to Inspector after so long?”

Greg is clenching his fists and looks shaken, while Mycroft is processing all the information Greg is throwing at him. Relationship, he would like to have a relationship. Good Lord, why now, why when for the first time in his life someone could be interested in him in this way, someone he is interested in too, is there is no longer any life that he can offer? Mycroft bites his lip, hesitant. “Gregory, I don’t have anything to offer. Anything. I wish I had known of your interest in me before, and even then there would have been so many objections..." Mycroft pauses and breathes deeply before continuing. “Now I simply can’t.”

Greg's gaze softens a bit. “Care to elaborate, Mycroft? As far as I know, you have a lot to offer, at least a lot of things I am interested in."

Mycroft takes another deep breath and closes his eyes. When he reopens them, he avoids looking at Gregory. “I have brain cancer, Gregory. Malignant brain cancer, of the non-curable type. It might be manageable, meaning I can still live few years with the right therapies and medications, but it cannot be eradicated. And that is not the worst part.” Greg is wondering what exactly can be worse than that, and his thoughts are visible on his face, so Mycroft continues. “Most likely the cancer will affect my thoughts, my analytical capabilities and even my personality. My brain might become useless. "

Greg can understand that for the strategist, death might look appealing compared to this. “Is this certain Mycroft? Is it reversible?”

“No Gregory, it is not certain. It is just a probability, it is one of the most probable outcomes." Mycroft opens his mouth as to continue, but nothing comes out.

Greg is scared, he does not really know what to say or how to behave, however something is very clear in his mind. Despite everything, Mycroft is his friend, hopefully maybe one day his lover, but regardless of any possible deepening of their relationship, he is a person he cares about. A lot.

“Mycroft, listen, I understand that this sounds scary. This is scary. However…. However the last word has not been said. You mentioned that therapies are possible, that maybe you can still have a good life for years. And this modification of your brain, it is not certain you said…. So, what about fighting? What about not giving up and trying to make the best of it?"

Mycroft looks at him, the pain visible in his eyes. “What are you proposing, Gregory? That I simply wait until everything that I care about is taken away from me bit by bit? And I should let it happen?”

Greg shakes his head. “I am offering the help of a friend. I am proposing to fight this, together, if you will allow me to help. I can’t promise we will win, but I can promise that we will fight with all our weapons and energy." At these words, Mycroft would simply like to throw himself at the man.

“Before even considering your proposal, Gregory, there is something more you should know.”     


	4. surgery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It needs to get worse before it can get better. Bear with me for the next two chapters, I swear then it becomes hopeful.

Mycroft tries to continue to do what he is best at: concealing and sweeping away his emotions. He looks at Greg, who is evidently emotionally touched by all Mycroft is saying. He is just a very kind and empathetic man.

“I think, Gregory, you have already understood that my position in the British Government is not always a minor one." How thin is the line between reassuring a friend, getting some help and committing treason? “There are certain … aspects … of my work that should not be known by anyone else. No one. It is a matter of national security.” Mycroft pauses, but he is already sure that Greg is aware of all this. Lestrade is much more than what he appears. He has brains and he understands more than what others believe.

“I know that you have access to a lot of classified information, Mycroft. You are not very subtle about the power you have. However, I do not understand what this has to do with your illness.” Greg replies, puzzlement evident in his eyes.

“You do not want to have anyone spilling the nuclear codes to the first neighboring country who asks for them, do you?” Mycroft says, trying to lighten the mood. Greg looks at him totally baffled. “Gregory, a person like me has less room to maneuver than a standard citizen.”  The conversation is going to turn very awkward. “Therefore, the country needs to take all precautions necessary to assure that the confidential information I know stays with me.”

Greg does not understand what Mycroft is trying to say. “Mycroft, I generally do not consider myself an idiot. In this case, however, I probably have turned into one. Can you translate all the above in simple English?”

“In my line of work, it is not acceptable nor allowable for what I know to be revealed to undesirable recipients. Because of this, if there is a concrete risk that I am not going to have complete control of what I am saying, for example because of extreme torture, there are systems in place which are devoted to avoid the leakage of classified information.”

Greg looks at him in disbelief, a frown on his face. “You are saying that someone is going to kill you to prevent you from spilling state secrets?”

Mycroft nods and lets the consequences of the revelation sink in to Lestrade. “I am not allowed to lose control of what I am saying. Normally, this means that if I am captured and tortured, the first measure should be of course to save me, but if that is not possible, then to silence me. However, this does not apply to that situation only. If this cancer is taking away my capacity for judgment, this can be a cause for….the removal of the risk too.”

Greg's eyes widen, and he shakes his head incredulously. “Are you telling me that there is someone at this very moment who is checking whether you are going off your head, and is ready to kill you in case?”

Mycroft nods again, his heart aching at seeing the distress he is causing Greg.

“Who is this person?” Greg steels himself, his voice resolute.

“Someone very close to me. It has to be, to know my movements and to have access to me at any point in time.”

Greg could not believe it. “Anthea,” he murmurs, not wanting to follow the inevitable line of thoughts. “I need something strong, Mycroft,” he adds with shaken voice.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft is startled at the sudden uncorrelated request.

“Whisky, scotch, any booze will do. I need it.”

Mycroft turns, removes a bottle of scotch from the spirits cabinet and pours a generous amount of it in a glass. As soon as he has handed it over, Greg gulps it in a single shot. It seems to serve its purpose and, after few minutes, Greg regains his composure.

With a thud on the table, Greg deposits the glass and looks intensely at Mycroft. “So, what are the next steps?”

“I will be operated on Wednesday next week at the London Bridge Hospital. Then, if I survive, Anthea will evaluate whether I can live. That means she will evaluate whether or not my brain functions are too compromised. I have been told that chemotherapy and radiotherapy will follow, together with some sort of rehabilitation.” At the mention of this, Mycroft looks slightly disgusted.

“Does Sherlock know?”

“Why should he know?”

Greg shakes his head. “Because he is your brother.” He gets no answer, Mycroft is looking at his shoes and seems pretty taken by their shape, carefully inspecting the tip with his eyes. “I assume that you also informed your parents.” Greg remembers both Mycroft and Sherlock mentioning on a few occasions their parents living somewhere outside London. This latter remark causes a stiff nervous laugh from the redhead.

“My parents are not going to be informed. Regarding Sherlock, I am still considering whether I should warn Dr Watson of my possible…prolonged absence so if something happens he can contact Anthea directly.”

“Mycroft, this is not exactly how things should work.”

The stare he receives from the official does not leave room for much more discussion. Greg understands that he has to change topic. “So, well… if you want my help, I need you to inform your doctors that I am allowed to …I don’t know, enter the hospital, and your room, and know the medical information that allows me to understand your future needs…”

“You want to have access to my medical records?” Mycroft seems to reflect a bit at his own question and then he answers. “It should not be a problem. I will inform the doctors and nurses accordingly.”

All of a sudden Mycroft is struck by how much he has opened up and the amount of information he has put in Greg’s hands, in particular showing his current dramatic weakness. He starts retreating into himself, resuming the icy-cold demeanor so typical of him. Greg could see it almost as a phase transition.

“Gregory, I have many commitments to finish before my extended leave next week. I apologize, but I need to return to my duties.” Mycroft makes himself busy by shuffling papers on his desk to avoid making eye contact with Greg.

_Extended leave my arse! Fuck…_ “Mycroft?” The redhead is forced to raise his eyes. “We have an agreement, don’t we?”

“I believe so, Gregory. If you would now excuse me... "

Greg understands when a conversation is over and leaves Mycroft's office. When he glimpses Anthea outside, he feels a sudden tachycardia starting.

***

Mycroft is left in emotional turmoil. He has never thought that the detective inspector, Gregory, could have any possible interest in him beyond a friendship. To be honest, friendship was already a miracle; he is not the most social or easy going man. No time for this, however.

In one aspect, the Inspector is right. He needs to warn Sherlock that he will not available for a while, in reality possibly even forever, but there is no need for his brother to know the latter option. He will instruct his lawyer to have his will ready, in case. Sherlock would inherit everything, except for a considerable sum which is bequeathed to Anthea and some minor amounts for a small number of loyal employees. He really hopes Dr Watson can fully substitute for him in keeping Sherlock _alive_. Funnily enough, he has been frightened all his life of finding Sherlock dead in some filthy corner of London. It now seems that a different Holmes may leave this Earth prematurely, the only difference being that in case of Sherlock’s death some people would mourn. Not in his case.

A stop at Backer Street is essential.

His driver brings him to 221B Baker Street. Mycroft exits the car, climbs the stairs, and enters; knocking on the door of his brother’s household makes little sense, he has already deduced that he is arriving.

“Good afternoon Dr Watson, good afternoon brother mine.”

“Hi Mycroft! Do you want a cup of tea and a slice of the cake Mrs Hudson has prepared?” John merrily offers. He is sitting on his chair finishing the crumbles of what had most probably been a generous piece of the described cake. Sherlock is busting some container containing an unidentifiable liquid.

“Be careful John, my brother is able to steal and eat the whole cake! Are you here because you have smelled the cake from your office?”

Mycroft is not in the mood for the usual bickering and does not even react. “I will not be available for a while, the length of time is not known yet. If you need anything or you manage to get in your usual trouble, please call my assistant.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and studies his brother. “Liar,” is all he says.

Mycroft looks strangely resigned. “Think whatever you want, Sherlock. Unfortunately, I have no time for these little games, work is waiting for me.” Without waiting for any comment, he leaves Baker Street; the black car is already waiting in front of the door to take him back to The Diogenes.

In the flat, Sherlock is still sitting with his fingers joined at the fingertips.

“Why did you call him a liar, Sherlock? Why would he lie about something as stupid as taking time off? Your brother is often travelling around the word on super-secret missions.”  John has served himself another piece of cake.

“You see but you don’t observe, John.”

“I thought we determined that long ago, Sherlock. What have I missed this time?”

Sherlock smiles.

“How many times has my brother disappeared for an extended period of time?”

John scratches his nose and replies: “Mmm, often?”

“Exactly!” Sherlock confirms, with a smug face. “Why do you think he bothered to inform us this time?”

John blinks. “Politeness?”

Sherlock scoffs and jumps up. “Come on John, politeness, from my brother! It means that there is something serious going on. I need to investigate.”

***

Three days later Sherlock and John are in front of Mycroft’s house.

“Sherlock, this is illegal.”

“This is my brother’s house!” Sherlock is typing the various security codes in **to** the keyboard attached to the gate.

“I don’t care whether this is your brother’s house or the house of a complete stranger! This is breaking in, he did not invite us!”

“John, I need to know.”

“You could ask him.”

Sherlock does not even bother to respond, he has unlocked the gate, deactivated the alarm, and only the front door remains. It is child’s play for him.

The consulting detective enters his brother's house easily from the front door, John following in his wake. He heads directly for Mycroft’s office, where he starts rummaging in every corner, throwing and scattering uninteresting papers everywhere. John is shocked by the mess he is making, there is no chance that they can put everything back in order.  

A drawer in Mycroft’s desk is locked, but it is not a deterrent for Sherlock. There is a thick envelope inside from the London Bridge Hospital. Sherlock opens it and starts reading.

Suddenly, the door of the office is pushed opened with such force that it hits the wall, and a shout resonates in the room. “Sherlock!” Mycroft enters his office, fists clenched, eyes sparkling, legs trembling.

“You have brain cancer,” his brother announces.

John gapes while Mycroft closes his eyes, feeling the tears forming at the corners. He crunches his lips hard, inhales and exhales loudly. “Sherlock, out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock yells, pointing at the papers.

Now Mycroft’s entire body is trembling. “For all that is sacred on this planet, Sherlock, get out, or I will not be responsible for my further actions.”

Captain John H. Watson, formerly of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, grabs Sherlock’s arm and forcibly pushes him out of the house, while Sherlock is deducing aloud the remaining life span of his brother.

***

Wednesday, 7 a.m., London Bridge Hospital. Anthea is with Mycroft in his room and Greg arrives shortly afterwards.

Mycroft is already in his surgery gown. He is definitely not amused to be seen like this. The awkwardness in the room ends abruptly when the nurses come to fetch Mycroft and roll him in the stretcher towards the operation theatre. Inside, he is greeted by the neurosurgeon he met in the pre-op evaluations, who is looking at his scans. “Good morning, Mr Holmes.”

“Good morning, Doctor.”

“Are you ready?”

Mycroft lips form a sad smile. “If need be.”

The doctor looks at him. “You know that it is necessary. Do you understand what you will be subjected to?”

“Yes, I remember all our conversations word by word.”

“Perfect. During the operation, you will be awake and asked to perform some easy tasks. You will not remember much of it afterwards. Do you also remember and understand the risk of the operation?”

“I do.”

“Time to start, then. We will first inject you with a mild anxiolytic and then we will proceed with the anaesthesia.” The surgeon leaves to prepare himself for the long surgery and two nurses come to prepare Mycroft. A razor is brought to shave his head.  With each lock of hair falling onto the sheet, a piece of Mycroft’s world falls too.

***

A few minutes after Mycroft has been taken into the surgery room, Anthea leaves Greg alone mentioning work to do. Greg feels totally lost in the waiting room outside theatre and upsettingly sad that there is no one waiting for Mycroft besides him. He was expecting a friend, a family member, a colleague, someone. Goddamn, the man is risking his life, even more, his brain, under the knife, and substantially no one cares. Sherlock has told him many times that his brother does not have a heart and his motto is “caring is not an advantage”. Bullshit. He has seen the man care badly and excessively for his damn reckless addict of a brother on multiple occasions. However, such caring seems to not be reciprocated.

His thoughts are interrupted by a small woman of Indian origin with enormous brown eyes wearing a white coat. She looks around as if she is searching for someone and then sets her eyes on him. “Family of Mr Holmes?”

“Ehm, not really? Just a friend. There is no one else, if you are looking for the family. They probably….still have to arrive.”

The woman smiles. “Your name, please?”

“Greg Lestrade” says Greg offering a hand. He gets an amazingly strong squeeze back.

“Mr Lestrade, yes, I do have your name on my list. I am Doctor Vishakha, Mr Holmes’ oncologist.”

“How is the operation going?” Greg hurriedly asks.

“It is too early to say, it will take several hours. You have the whole morning to wait, most probably.”

“Can I see him afterwards?”

“Mr Holmes will be directly transported to ICU. He will stay there 2 or 3 days, if no complications arise. Then he will likely be moved back to his private room. During the ICU stay, you can visit him from 8 a.m. till 8 p.m., however today you won’t be able to communicate with him, he will be kept sedated to boost the recovery. Please be aware that in ICU only two persons are allowed per visiting time. You need to cover your shoes and hair in plastic bags and carefully clean your hands with a disinfectant. Later on, in his private room, visiting time will be more flexible.”

Honestly, Greg is not much interested in the formal aspects now. He has a much more pressing question. “Will….will he make it?”

The doctor looks at the tired concerned face of the inspector. The blue/black bags under his eyes speak of his status better than any words. Her voice sounds less detached than before. “The operation yes, unless some unexpected complication happens. It is a risky operation, I cannot deny it, but the chances of survival are good. However, the difficult part comes afterwards.” She looks at Greg with her immense eyes. “I hope he can count on…friends, because they will be badly needed.”

Greg nods, hoping that the doctor is exaggerating a bit. She announces that she needs to visit other patients and she gives him her business card with her phone number, just in case. Greg puts it in his wallet and decides to make himself comfortable. Luckily, at reception, he could borrow a couple of newspapers, he is too nervous to understand anything, but without distraction he will go crazy. Indeed, Mycroft does not emerge for the whole morning.

In the early afternoon, the theatre doors open and Mycroft is transported out on a stretcher. Greg is not even able to get a glimpse of the man because he is surrounded by nurses and beeping machines. One of the nurses tells him that he can visit “Mr Holmes” in one hour time.

Greg is still disoriented and does not know what to do, too many things are happening too quickly. At first, he does not notice the neurosurgeon, who is standing outside the theatre door and has not walked away with the convoy. When Greg turns, he smiles at him and Greg dares to get closer.

The neurosurgeon is a tall lanky man with very light disconcerting blue eyes and beautiful hands having long dexterous fingers. Holmesian hands. This man is probably used to weird reactions to his glare, due to the color of his eyes, but Greg is accustomed to Sherlock’s eyes and nothing can be more mesmerizing. Realizing that he is staring, Greg tries to apologize. “Doctor, sorry, I am worried about my friend who has just come out of theatre,” and Greg points towards the direction taken by Mycroft and the nurses.

The doctor smiles, a reassuring one. “Everything went according to textbook. No major complications showed up, although a substantial piece of brain matter was removed. We need to carefully follow up the recovery, but the operation in itself was a success.”

“Did you manage to remove it completely?” Greg does not know why, but he is almost scared to pronounce the word cancer.

“Lab tests during this week will be able to tell us whether a complete excision has been performed. I removed all I safely could.”  

“Thank you, doctor.”

“My pleasure,” and with this the doctor disappears into the theatre again.

Still almost an hour before he can see Mycroft. Greg decides to go back to the newspapers, probably he will not be able to understand much as before, but there is a good article about the latest player acquisition from Arsenal….

***

The ICU ward is somewhat scary. At the entrance, he puts on two small blue plastic shoe covers and a blue cap on his hair. There is a foam dispenser of disinfectant and he rubs his hands with it. Inside, the atmosphere is dominated by machines, beeping or acute thrills, which randomly start and randomly end. Mycroft’s room is at the end of the hallway and Greg can feel his heart pounding in his chest. He has seen many colleagues injured and in hospital, but this is different. This is happening to a person he would like to have in his life and who has been hit by his worst nightmare. Greg slowly opens the door and enters.

The sight of Mycroft is almost enough to make him flee immediately.

The redhead, or better former redhead, is lying unconscious on the hospital bed. A dressing is wrapped around his head, covering the wound site. There are two tubes coming out from the site, clearly visible on the pale skin of Mycroft’s scalp. Greg shivers at the sight of the tubes, which are _inside_ Mycroft’s brain. The rest is equally disturbing. Mycroft’s head and face are incredibly swollen, his pale skin is stretched and little blue veins are visible under it. His eyes look sunken in the skull, almost disappearing under thick eyelids, and an oxygen mask covers his mouth. This is just the head part; the rest of his friend’s body is attached to a great number of machines via an equally great number of tubes. He recognizes the catheter from the connected sac of urine that is dangling on one side of the bed.

Greg is still trying to take all this in, when an acute noise emitted by one of the machines startles him. He jumps and is ready to call someone, thinking it is an emergency, but after few seconds a nurse calmly but efficiently enters the room, eyes Greg and starts the neurological observations. Mycroft does not react even when the nurse opens his eyes to shine a light into them to check how the pupils react. She then puts a blood pressure cuff on his arm and measures it. This and all information from the various machines are written down in the chart she is carrying with her.

After her meticulous check has finished, the nurse looks at Greg, who is still standing on alert mode, and reassures him. “It was just the alarm clock. I have to check his neurological parameters every 25 minutes.”

Greg moves his eyes from her to Mycroft, concern evident, and the nurse’s expression softens. “He is swollen due to the operation. It is normal. Do not worry, it will go down in the coming days.”

Greg feels a little lighter. He then motions to the tubes coming out from Mycroft’s head, still too shaken to form real words. “These?” the nurse asks, pointing at the same tubes. Greg nods. “Nothing to worry about. One is the drainage, to remove fluid forming in the wound site, and the other one is to measure the intracranial pressure. They will both come out tomorrow.”

Greg breathes a sigh of relief, and approaches the plastic chair positioned on one side of Mycroft’s bed. He feels his body relaxing a bit after the whole tension of the past days and the reassuring words of the nurses and the doctors. These thoughts last only few seconds, because loud voices coming from the hallway break the spell. The nurse makes a disconcerted face and is ready to bolt towards the source of the noise, when Sherlock and an elegant elderly woman with white hair enter in the room.

“I told you he was here,” Sherlock is saying to the white haired woman.

The nurse has his hands on her hips and scolds the duo. “Sir, this is an ICU ward. Please lower the volume of your voice. In addition, no more than two persons at a time are allowed in the room to visit Mr Holmes.”

The two didn't so much as look at her and continue their conversation. 

“Are you sure that he will recover? He does look rather….” The posh woman looks at Mycroft’s body, “…appalling.”

“Mother, we can ask a doctor, but I have read the diagnosis in Mycroft’s office, he will die, this is just to prolong his life of a bit. In the meantime, his brain will be malfunctioning.” Sherlock explains.

“Oh Sherlock, and then why has he been operated? Surely, he does not believe that your father and I, at our age, can take care of a disabled person.” The woman wrinkles her nose in disgust at the thought.

Greg feels a wave of anger mounting inside him. Who do they think they are? They might be Mycroft’s family, the woman is their mother according to Sherlock, but this is not acceptable. He is ready to retort when the doctor with the gigantic brown eyes he has already met barges in.

“What is going on here?” He already got the idea that the doctor may look small and cute, but has a steel core. She is indeed looking at Sherlock and his mother with a stern frown.

The white haired woman looks at the doctor and, as if nothing was concerning her, asks “My son and I were wondering when Mycroft can go back to work.”

Greg cannot listen to the answer. Either he starts punching Sherlock and his mother or he has to go away. He runs outside the ICU and makes all the stairs of the five floors on foot. The physical exercise calms him down a bit, however he won’t go back immediately. Greg cannot cope with the Holmes’ anymore, it is too much and he badly needs a cigarette. The hospital has a small inner garden where there are a few benches and smoking is possible, thus he quickly walks toward it. He also needs fresh air and time to order his thoughts. He sits on a bench and puts his head in his hands. Shit, he wants Mycroft to wake up and for a stone to hit Mrs Holmes in the head. And that Mycroft wakes up as Mycroft. Fuck! The images of Mycroft surrounded by tubes coming out of his head, pale and fragile, and the contrasting one of Mrs Holmes joyfully discussing  her son’s death in the same room are dancing in front of his eyes giving him an incipient headache. 

The sounds of steps on the gravel shakes Greg from his pondering. He looks over and sees a petite brown-haired person approaching him. Anthea. _God, is five minutes of peace asking too much?_

Greg stands up and his body assumes the position he practiced when he was still playing rugby at university. Legs apart, head sunk in the shoulder, ready to throw himself in the scrum. Ready to fight. He clenches his fists, Anthea could be a well-trained assassin, yes, but he has several years of street fights on his shoulder **s** , she has to pass **over** his corpse before reaching Mycroft.

Of course Anthea notices his stance. “Relax, Inspector. I am not here to do any harm to Mr Holmes.”

Greg does not move.

Anthea sighs. “I can understand that you cannot trust me. However, please consider the situation logically. If I wanted to get rid of Mr Holmes, I could have done it during the surgery. Alternatively, I could have done so immediately after it. There is no need for me to pass in front of you in order to accomplish my task.”

Greg relaxes but not completely and scrutinizes Anthea, trying not to be too obvious.

Anthea shakes her head. “You don’t understand.”

“This is the standard sentence people tell me nowadays. Either I have all of a sudden become an idiot, or possibly people simply do not explain themselves well enough for me to understand.”  Anger shows in Greg’s voice, it has been a long day, for God sake.

Anthea smiles, a small but sincere upward movement of her lips changes her facial expression. She looks in front of her, remembering.  “My parents emigrated here to Great Britain from Chile when I was 5. I was an only child, whom they managed to conceive after many tries and several spontaneous abortions. They came here to give me a better life, more possibilities. Chile was in a political turmoil at the time, it was not a safe country to raise a kid.”

Greg is not used to Anthea telling him secrets. Moreover, it seems that what she is saying has nothing to do with the situation. 

Unaware of his thoughts, Anthea continues her story. “It was not simple for them, they did not know the language very well, and they had a simple education. Nevertheless, both of them were hard workers and they found their place in the English society. My dad started working in a Spanish restaurant as a kitchen porter and slowly but steadily got more and more responsibilities, earning more money, till he managed to open his own street kitchen. My mother was a cleaning lady, cleaning houses while I was attending school and doing some sewing work while I was at home. Life was modest, we did not have much, but it was good.”

Anthea looks up in the sky. “Then, when I was 16, they died in a car accident. My dad was carrying my mum on the bike, and a car hit them. They died on the spot. The car had a diplomatic plate, so the person who killed my parents could not be prosecuted. I was left totally alone in a country which was not mine, with no other person I could rely on. I inherited some money from my parents, their savings, but it was not much. For sure not enough to go back to Chile, where, anyhow, I did not know anyone, I did not even know whether there could have been a life there waiting for me. I was feeling much more English than Chilean, I lived there only the first 5 years of my life.”

Anthea looks at Greg. “There are not many options for someone who at 16 has no one left. Foster care is available till 18, not many are willing to adopt an older child and I for sure was not willing to be adopted. Many told me what I could do and how I could earn money using my body. There are advantages in to being young and beautiful, I have been told.” A sad smile forms on Anthea’s lips. “What a shame that my dreams were to go to university and graduate. I loved studying.”

Greg feels a sharp pang of guilt to have judged Anthea quickly and dismissively without knowing the entire story. He thought she was a posh kid….

“At that time, while I was doing my last year of high school, Mr Holmes was a rising star in MI5. He was young but he had already managed to achieve a couple of degrees and a position of responsibility. He was also scouting within the high schools and universities of England for bright young people who could be the agents and governmental officials of the future. He definitely believed in the power of intelligence.” The sad smile on her face turns into a sincere one. “And he found me. That angry 17 year old with no one in the world but in love with science. I had everything paid: accommodation, university, all my needs. At the beginning, I was like an employee, my duty was to make the best marks in all disciplines. With time…., with time it became something else, possibly something more. Mr Holmes was the one who attended my diploma ceremony, my graduation, my PhD finals. He was there when I needed advice, there was always a present for my birthdays. He took care of me. I am not saying that he was friendly, but he cared in his own way. Honestly, at that time, I could not understand it completely. I was angry, I was longing for a hug or a clearer sign of appreciation from him. I knew it was not due, but I was young and in need of affection. I was looking at him more and more as if he were uncle or … a father. Then I met his family and I understood much more about Mr Holmes and the reasons for his apparently cold behavior.”

Anthea is still looking far away, it seems like she is talking to herself and not to Greg. After a few seconds of silence, she probably realizes she has been lost in her thoughts and shakes her head. “After what I have told you, do you think I really want to harm him if I have the slightest chance to avoid it, Detective Inspector?” She turns toward Greg waiting for an answer.

“You are the one who has to kill him.” Greg replies, forming the words slowly as if they would hurt less at slow speed.

“Yes.” Anthea is almost angry. “Would you have liked that this task had been assigned to someone who didn't care at all for Mr Holmes or even maybe to someone who would use the chance to get rid of him as soon as the opportunity had arisen?” Taking a deep breath she adds: “Do you think I like it? Trust me, I hate it. However, it is much better this way than in any other option I have considered. It is my way of protecting him, being the one who decides when he has to be removed.”

Greg observes Anthea and tries to imagine her as a young frightened kid. What she is saying in its own creepy way makes sense. The judgment of a person who cares for Mycroft in such a situation is thousands times better than the judgment of a random agent. He gets it. In this specific case, much better than one of Mycroft’s own family. Greg shivers at the memory of Mycroft’s mother.

“How can we help him?”

Anthea visibly relaxes. “We cannot leave him in the hands his family, it would be his death. I have talked to the doctor and Mr Holmes will be in need of a lot of specialized care when he is discharged.”

“If,” Greg corrects her.

“When,” Anthea repeats. “He will need help with feeding and washing, till he relearns the basic everyday activities. I know my boss and he will refuse to have anyone doing all this for him. He might accept a nurse to help him in moving around, in cleaning or cooking, but the most intimate activities, like washing, going to the toilet or admitting a difficulty…. He is not willing to allow anyone close. He would prefer to die, I know it.” 

“You mean that his family and friends are not going to help out?”

“You have seen his family, Lestrade, and when it comes to his friends…” Anthea stares him, “I was hoping that his friend was willing to help him.”

Greg locks his eyes with hers and understands. “Of course I will help. However I have no medical training whatsoever.”

“I do not think that medical training will be necessary. We will know more as soon as Mr Holmes wakes up. In the meantime, I will look for a nurse and keep the wolves at bay, you cannot imagine how many people are already trying to put their hands on Mycroft’s position, although nothing has leaked, only that he is going to be absent for a while.”  

***

Greg decides that it makes no sense to go back to ICU. Mycroft is sleeping and he has no intention to cause trouble attacking Sherlock or his mother. The best option is to go home and warn Sally that he will be away from the Met for personal reasons for the rest of the week. On the way to his flat, he stops at his favorite Indian takeaway; h **is** stomach is reminding him that he has eaten nothing during the day.

He eagerly eats from the cartons while he thinks about the events of the day. He should not do it as the only result will be returning to an anxious mood that will not help him sleeping. He needs to be in good shape to be of help for Mycroft, a walking zombie won’t do the job. He opens the laptop and checks his emails. Among with all the emails from colleagues and his boss, there isan email from Anthea with two attachments.  He opens it. Nothing is written in the body of the email, however the attachments are two CV of two nurses. Claude Conner, 49, married with two twin sons aged 25, a nurse with many years experience working in an oncological unit, and Jeff Closed, 45, unmarried, also seemingly very experienced in dealing with cancer patients. Greg can’t deny that Anthea is incredibly efficient.

***

_Pain._

_Too much light._

_Maybe the light causes the pain._

_But it is dark. There is no light._

Mycroft tries to move his head, but the pain increases, so he stops.

_Oh, my eyes are closed. It is so difficult to open them._

_Why is it so difficult to open them?_

Slowly Mycroft manages to lift his eyelids and he looks around without moving his head, having learned the lesson. He blinks a couple of times trying to remember where he is. He does not.

_Why am I here?_ He lifts his left hand and touches his face. A mask. He goes higher. Oh! No hair. And a big bandage.

He lifts his right hand to touch his stomach. 

He wants to lift his right hand. Nothing.

He knows he is commanding his right hand to move but still nothing happens.

He looks at it, it seems to be there under the sheet, but he feels nothing. He tries again to move it and he manages a tiny jerk. He tries to move the right leg then. When nothing happens, Mycroft screams.


	5. rock bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with this chapter we reach rock bottom. From the next one, things will start improving. Trust me.

The day after, Greg returns to ICU in the middle of the morning. He hopes Mycroft has slept, rested, or has done whatever someone does when sedated, and maybe today he will wake up. Thinking about Mycroft waking up makes Greg shiver. How will Mycroft be, when he regains consciousness? No one has given him a detailed answer, except that everything went well. What is that old expression? _The surgery was successful but the patient died._ In the present case it would translate into _the operation was successful but the patient turned into an idiot_. That would be Mycroft's biggest fear.

In Mycroft’s room, he finds Dr Vishakha performing an examination on the government official. “Doctor, do you know when he will wake up?” he whispers to her. He knows that he could raise his voice a bit, but all the machines intimidate him, they seem to stare at him with their electrical blinking eyes.

“He woke up,” is the laconic answer of the big-eyed lady.

Greg tilts his head to one side mutely asking for some more information. Admittedly, the doctor looks like she is battling some angst that would like to surface. She is scrutinizing Greg and somehow she seems to be reassured by what she sees. She turns back to Mycroft and sighs.

“He woke up this morning. We …heard him screaming.” The doctor does not notice Greg’s alarmed expression because she is still looking at Mycroft. “Unfortunately, the damage to the motor control of his right side is greater than what we preliminarily thought.” The doctor presses her lips together; her hands still expertly examining Mycroft’s body. “We have thus decided to sedate him for a bit longer.”

She looks up, eyes glimmering with yellow glitters scattered in the enormous brown pupils. “For patients who have had brain surgery, avoiding stress is of paramount importance, probably as important as all the medications we pump in his veins. Sadly, the consequences of brain surgery can be severe in many instances. This is why we allow family members to visit the patients during their ICU stay, to help them to get through the harshness. It seems to me however...” she cannot help the quiver in her voice “…that in this case the family itself might be a source of enormous stress.” It seems that an adjustment to Mycroft’s IV is necessary, so the doctor starts adjusting the valve. Looking at the falling liquid drops, the doctor continues. “We need someone to be present when Mr Holmes wakes up again, someone who can reassure him and be steady enough to assist him in facing what has happened. Someone strong and selfless, who cares about Mr Holmes primarily, at least in this very moment. Can you do that?”

The last part was unexpected. Greg opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again. Sure, he is Mycroft’s friend. They are close, but there must be someone closer than him, someone that knows Mycroft better and for longer. Someone steady. The machines, for God sake, already scare him. He is not sure whether he can cope with a terrified Mycroft. Sherlock is out of the equation, his parents too…

“Anth...” Greg does not finish pronouncing her name. No, not Anthea, not with what he has learned about … one of her duties. He shakes his head.

“I … I can try.” _And if someone gives me the strength, please_. “But I certainly need some guidance.”

The doctor relaxes. “Well, he will wake up in few hours. He will be disoriented and in mild pain. He needs you to explain to him why he is here and what has happened to him. Slowly, steadily, calmly. He will probably have some discomfort at remembering. There will be a point in which he will notice that his right side is not functioning properly. Reassure him. Tell him it will get better. Honestly, I don’t know how much he will progress, but he will definitely progress, the worst is now. We don’t know what else in Mycroft’s brain is affected. The important part is being calm and reassuring, whatever happens. And repeat the same things often. He will have to start from scratch in many things.”

“If he panics, what shall I do?”

“Try to calm him, sometimes just a soothing hand on his arm or stomach can do the trick. In the worst case, we will sedate him again, but I would like to avoid it.”

Honestly, Greg is scared; helping a man through his worst fear is one of the most daunting tasks he has ever received.

***

_The pain is better._

_Remember head movements. Not good. Keep the head still._

_I want to open my eyes._

Mycroft opens his eyes and looks around. A grey-haired man is sitting on the plastic chair adjacent to his bed, a hand on his arm.

_Handsome._

He knows this person. Somewhere in his brain is the image of this person, and somewhere else is his name. Why is this information in different places? Police officer, divorced, likes to play sports…

_Gregory!_

Mycroft recognises the silver fox. Memories are slowly finding their way through the newly forming synapses that are bypassing the hole left by the removed brain matter’s volume. His senses are also awakening and he suddenly realizes that, where Greg’s hand is touching his arm, he should perceive a warm feeling due to the contact with Gregory’s skin as well as a sensation of a slight pressure. He feels nothing of the sort. _Need more data._

Memories and data are continuously flooding his brain, which is trying to catalogue them at an amazing speed.

_Brain cancer._

_Surgery._

_The_ _right half of my body is unresponsive._

Mycroft’s eyes widen in horror. 

Greg notices the fear creeping into his friend's features and he realizes that he is touching his right arm. _Damn, how can I be such an imbecile?_ He quickly changes sides, and puts his hand on his left arm, which is supposedly unaffected. At least he hopes so. The man’s eyes are following him in all his movements.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft focuses his gaze on him.

“Mycroft, you had brain surgery to remove cancer from your head. The operation went very well.”

He tries to caress his arm.

Mycroft feels the movement of a warm hand on his arm. It means that some nerve signals are properly arriving at his brain. That is good. He remembers the operation, yes. They told him that he could have some impairments in his motor function. What is the extent of “impairment”?  His right side seems to not be present, as if they have removed it from his body. Thinking is almost painful and he feels like he is resurfacing from a very bad hangover. Why is the feeling of Greg’s arm so soothing? He hears the man talking; the voice is so kind and gentle, so male. Why is understanding the words so difficult? It does not matter, he never had someone talking to him like this, it is a tender lullaby that is taking his new-born neuron links by hand and helping them to join his nervous system.

***

The third day after surgery, Mycroft is discharged from ICU and moved to a private room in he hospital. Fewer tubes are now pierced in his body.

“Mr Holmes, you have to try to stand up and move your legs.” A stocky nurse is looking at him expectantly.

“I…cannot….move.”

For God sake, words are coming so slowly. He has to search for them, nothing is automatic anymore. His mouth does not move properly either, his speech is slurred. Mycroft has been avoiding speaking since the operation, he feels too ashamed. He would like to get rid of this insistent, annoying nurse with the power of his brain. Can’t he understand that the right side of his body does not want to follow his orders? How is he supposed to stand up and walk?

The nurse is not abashed. He moves a wheelchair in front of him. “Mr Holmes, I will help you stand, and I will help you sit in this wheelchair. In the coming days we will go to physiotherapy where you will learn how to get on and off the chair autonomously.”

Mycroft does not intend to lower himself to the point of being lifted and then carried in a wheelchair, by a complete stranger nonetheless! It is not possible that his mind will stay this lazy for much longer. He is sure that his brain will get bored and will start reconstructing itself. The status quo is simply not acceptable, not admissible, not allowable.

Still, it seems that the nurse is not deterred by his non-verbal thoughts and comes back every day with the same requests. Stand up, sit down, let’s go to therapy. Mycroft does not want to go to that damn therapy where he is supposed to stand between parallel bars and … learn to walk again. Perform daily tasks one-handed. He is not a baby, he learned how to walk 49 years ago. They told him the longer he refuses to exercise, the less the probabilities of a recovery are.

He does not care about the physical part! The only thing he is thankful for is the electric wheelchair. Now he has learned how to steer it and he can move around. When are they going to train his thoughts to be as accurate, precise and acute as before? Where is that lovely soothing male voice that can calm him?

***

It is like during a snow blizzard, when all sounds are damped except the wind noise. The latter has been replaced by the pulsing of his heart, which is beating inside his ears. Probably, it has decided to emigrate there from his chest cavity. The damped sounds are voices, more like heated discussions, that are taking place around him. How many people are present?

“….Why did you operate on my son? Have you seen the condition it has reduced him to? Who is taking care of him now? Is this a state you want to live in?...”

“…Ms Holmes, this is not the place nor the time to discuss this matter…”

“….let him die….”

“….I am going to call security…”

The blizzard is also in front of his eyes, it is all so foggy. Maybe the snow also makes things slower, not only blurry. People around him are moving in slow motion. They seem to be so frantic, but, at the same time, they move as if they are wading through gelatin, which forces them to decelerate.  Why are they so agitated?

“….what is his IQ now? …”

“…He needs to recover in a stress-free environment….”

“….can he live alone?...”

“….he needs time to adjust….”

Something must have happened because all the background sound suddenly stops. People are hovering around his bed, except a grey haired lady who is looking at everyone and everything with utter disgust. There is partially digested stomach content splattered all over his sheets. Someone is calling a nurse. His stomach is doing something funny, it seems. Is he really vomiting on his own bed? He cannot find the answer to this question, because he slowly loses consciousness while machines start frantically beeping and two people are pushed slowly but resolutely outside his room.

***

“You must take him home, now.”

Greg had just arrived from work for his evening visit at the hospital when he is accosted by Dr Vishakha looking very stern and irate.

“Now, do you understand me? Now!”

He puts his hands in front of him in a pacifying gesture. “I understand, yes. Why?”

The brown eyes are bigger than ever. “This is unbelievable! They want their son to die!” The doctor is so angry that she is shaking. Greg is trying to figure out what has happened with Mycroft’s parents, but from what he has seen in recent days, anything is possible. If Mycroft has to go home, needs to go home, he has to arrange many things; he does not even know where the Government official lives. He needs to call Anthea.

His visit in the hospital is rather short. Mycroft is laying in bed, his back elevated, and he is looking in front of him, staring at a blank TV screen. He does not respond to questions, he does not even look at him. There is an infinite sadness and pain in his eyes. Greg does not believe that the pain is physical, he had asked the doctors yesterday, and they told him that the painkillers’ dosage should be enough to remove all physical discomfort. Mycroft is not even trying to move his right hand, performing the small but hopeful movements he can make with it. He is just dragging his arm along every time he shifts in the bed, as if it was a foreign entity.

Greg soon leaves. He feels like a coward, but he simply cannot cope. He call Donovan and tells her that he needs another day off for personal reasons. He does not tell her why, that he needs to bring Mycroft home.

***

“Mr Holmes, you are going to be discharged today. The stiches in your scalp will be reabsorbed on their own; the wound has healed properly, so you don’t need to do anything to it. In a weeks time, next Wednesday, you will start radiotherapy. Moreover, you should start chemotherapy immediately.” The doctor hands him a box of pills. “Take the temozolomide capsules each day till the end of the radiotherapy. Afterwards, you will take them for 5 days every 4 weeks and repeat this treatment for one year. Do not worry, we will remind you of this schedule very often. It is best to take them at the same time each day.” The doctor looks at some charts. “Your radiotherapy will last 5 weeks, one irradiation per day from Monday to Friday. It is important to drink about 3 litres of water a day if possible while having treatment, because hydration helps the body to repair the radiotherapy damage. During the first day, you will have a treatment mask designed and made especially for you to wear each time you have treatment; it is made specifically to fit your head to hold it in the same position and place each time you have radiotherapy. Both radio and chemotherapy might have side effects, and the first day of radiotherapy the radiologist will discuss them with you and for many we can take the proper countermeasures, if they show up.” Dr Vishakha narrows her eyes. “Each day, before radiotherapy, you will have three hours of physical rehabilitation. I have been told that you have not been very cooperative with that. Mr Holmes, it is for your own sake. Your mobility can vastly improve, but you have to put in some effort.”

Mycroft is not listening any more. He cannot stay focused for that long. He would despair in normal circumstances to notice that his attention span is so short, but at the moment the only thing that is occupying his brain is the word home. The rest, he does not care about, he simply nods at whatever the doctor is saying. It is neither relevant, nor important. The goodbye is as hurried as possible, with Greg collecting the pile of documents regarding the hospitalization and surgery and getting the last recommendations from the doctor, including emergency numbers to call – her personal number above all – in case anything happens. Anthea has arranged a special minivan where he can enter directly with the electric wheelchair, without any need of getting off and on it. It is going to be his new vehicle from now on. The driver is the same, no difference there.

They reach Mycroft’s home where a smiling, tall and solidly built woman is waiting in front of the entrance door. Anthea indicates for her to follow them inside. Luckily, there is a single step in front of the entrance door which has been covered by a ramp. For sure, Anthea’s work or order. Mycroft’s wheelchair can autonomously enter.

They gather in the living room. It is clear that someone has been in the house rearranging items so that the path from the entrance door to the main rooms of the house, such as Mycroft’s room, kitchen and en-suite bathroom, are accessible for a wheelchair. Greg is eagerly looking around, the house is very big, and they are in central London. Further, it is marvelously furnished, with an elegant touch. He knew that Mycroft had money, but this is way above what he expected. 

“Mr Holmes, this is Claude Conner, she will be your day-care nurse. She will take care of your well-being and medical needs during the day. She will also bring you to therapy in the morning; she already has your schedule.” Which was arranged one hour ago, Greg realizes. Efficiency. “For the night, Mr Jeff Closed, another very experienced nurse, will come to help you in all tasks you might need regarding hygiene and-“

“No.” Everyone turns towards Mycroft.

“What did you say, Sir?” Anthea looks very puzzled. She has arranged everything perfectly; her boss is going to be taken care of 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

“No.” Steel eyes, lost and forgotten in the past days after the surgery, are looking at the audience. It was the former Mycroft talking, the Mycroft running the British Government, albeit from a wheelchair.

“Sir… Sir you need someone assisting you in your daily and nightly tasks. Mrs Conner and Mr Closed have been thoughtfully vetted and examined, they are highly skilled professionals and capable of understanding all needs of a patient recovering from-“

“No.”

Mycroft is tense, everyone can see it, but he does not add a single word to it. Greg decides that he needs to intervene.

“Mycroft, listen, is there a place where we can talk… in private?”

Mycroft stares at him, analyzing (maybe even reading) his thoughts and then simply rolls towards a room that is – Greg discovers few second afterwards – the office where the redhead works from home when needed. Greg swiftly follows and closes the door. Greg knows that Mycroft is embarrassed by his way of speaking and maybe in private he is going to be more open.

“Mycroft, listen. You know that you need help. You cannot stay in this…” Greg looks around “…mansion on your own. You need someone who can help you in your daily tasks. I am not saying forever! I am just saying that there must be someone here with you until you are more independent and you have completely recovered from surgery.”

Mycroft shakes his head very slowly, probably still remembering the painful headaches.

“I… my house. I don’t want …cleaning and washing … me. No.”

Greg looks at the man who has seen his life shatter in one day and feels a weird longing to give him a hug. Nonsense. “I understand, but… first of all Claude is here to help you in your daily tasks. You need to go to therapy and also need assistance with cooking, washing your clothes and moving inside the house.”

“I wash …myself.” There is so much sorrow in Mycroft’s eyes that Greg does not have the courage to tell him that he is not able to do it yet. It is not safe for Mycroft to be alone the whole night and move in the bathroom unsupervised.

“Mycroft, what about me? Claude stays here during the day and when I have finished at the Met I can come to your house, I can sleep any place, and if you need me…I am available? You know me, I am not a stranger, I swear I do not snore! You just tell me what I have to do, how I can help, and I will?” Greg is not completely sure whether he can do something like this, but he cannot see another way.

Mycroft is observing him, sorrow still present. “No.”

“Mycroft, you can’t be alone.”

Another tiny head-shake.

“At least promise me that you will call me in case you need something. Anything, at any hour.”

A tiny nod.

Greg sighs, he is not happy about the outcome, but it is better than nothing. They inform the others of the decision and Mycroft is left with Claude for the afternoon and with his nightmares afterwards.

***

Mycroft watches Greg leave with Anthea with a lump in his throat and a heaviness in his heart. He hates this weak part of himself, which is emerging more and more since the surgery, and is getting stronger. He has always dreamed of having the DCI at home with him, but definitely not under these circumstances. He looks at his wheelchair and at his right hand. There are no other circumstances possible anymore, unfortunately.

***

The only news he gets about Mycroft is from Anthea, not from the man himself. Ten days of messages from his assistant, telling him about Mycroft’s progress, in particular his speech. It seems that at least that aspect of his friend is almost back to normal, just a bit slower than it was. However, he is still alone in the evenings and nights, the nurse leaving after she has cooked dinner.  It seems that Claude is very reluctant to leave, but that Mycroft is very insistent about it. Radiotherapy has started as well, which means that – combined with rehabilitation therapy - Mycroft spends all his mornings in the hospital.   

***

Mycroft is finally back home after a long day at the hospital. Same routine every day. He is exhausted, all the bones in his body are aching and his thoughts are so slow. He believes he understands now what being a goldfish means, he is just too tired and obnubilated by everything to really consider the consequences of it. Or take any action.

The bathroom has been rearranged according to his needs. A plastic chair has been placed in the large shower so that he can sit there when he wants to wash himself, and the furniture has been moved so that there is always enough space for the wheelchair wherever he needs to move. Unfortunately, his toilet is not an accessible toilet and he has to work hard to use it.

Despite her constant complaints, he manages to shovel Claude out the door after dinner and have some privacy on his own. Removing his clothes is painfully slow and complex. After doing so, he lowers one of the armrests of the wheelchair and tentatively transfers himself to the stool in the shower. He is able to push the wheelchair backwards so it stays dry, and washes himself. Washing his hair with shampoo is almost impossible, he uses his good hand to hold the shower and the other one can hardly be raised so much as to touch his scalp. He tries to compensate with abundant water. He would never give up this last stronghold of his dignity; he refuses to be washed by a paid nurse in his own house.

The days after radiotherapy are even more challenging than usual. His thoughts are even slower and his body refuses to be controlled. When Claude is finally gone, his only thought is to immerse himself in hot water and let his bones soak in the warmth … hopefully soothing his mind too. Mycroft opens the tap of the bathtub and lets it fill up. He puts some scented soap in, when there is a need to indulge, it is better to do it completely. He has not indulged in anything for a very, very long while. He shifts from the wheelchair to the edge of the bathtub, puts his legs inside it and slowly slides down. OOOHHH. Such a delight. Mycroft closes his eyes and allows himself not to think for a few minutes.

The official reopens his eyes when he feels the water start to cool down. The bath has had a pleasant effect on his body and skin; he should do it more often. He opens the lock of the tub and lets the water drain. He then puts his hands on the edge of the bathtub and tries to push himself up using his feet as a support. No chance. He lifts himself halfway and then inexorably slides back to the bottom of the tub. He does not have enough strength on the one side of his body to overcome the edge of it. He attempts it several more times, but the result is always worse, his strength decreasing after each try, his body weaker. Mycroft starts panicking and thinking of possible solutions.

He could call Anthea or Mrs Conner, but it would be a fatal blow to his self-respect. He bites his lip. He has no other alternative. He fetches the mobile he left on the stool with his clothes, luckily within arm’s reach, and clicks on Lestrade’s contact. The phone starts ringing; he can only hope that Greg will answer.

“Hi Mycroft, how are you?”

“Is your offer still … valid, Gregory?” Tears are rolling down Mycroft’s cheeks and he is so glad that the mobile does not show his face. Mycroft knows that his answer has been brusque, but he does not have much room to manoeuvre, his body is already shivering and his right side is numb. He does not know how long he can stand it before calling for an emergency.

Greg understands that something is not completely right because he hears the concern in his voice. “Mycroft, do you need help?”

“You offered to spend some time in my house to help me adapt to my new … condition. Is that offer still on the plate?”

“Of course Mycroft. Just tell me when you want me to come and I am sure we can find an arrangement that can work for both of us. I really am willing to help.”

“Could you come… right now?” Mycroft whispers. “I will tell you the security codes to enter when you are in front of the gate.”

Luckily, Greg is sensible enough to get the underlying anxious request behind the polite question. “Mycroft, hold on, I need approximately 20 minutes and I will be at your house.” Greg closes the communication without additional ceremonies.  God bless the man and his sixth sense.

Mycroft is too scared to put the phone back on the stool, he clenches it with his good hand, knuckles white and hand shaking. It is like a life vest without which someone would probably find him dead in the bathtub. A hysterical laugh resonates in the bathroom and Mycroft needs to concentrate to understand that he is the source of it. He has goosebumps all over and involuntary shaking has already started. He feels nauseous and his head is spinning. He is still alert enough to recognize the symptoms of a panic attack. He tries to breathe slowly and deeply, however his crouched position does not help him expand his rib cage enough for it. Keeping his mobile close to his chest, Mycroft prays that Greg arrives as soon as possible.

After a countless number of agonizing minutes, someone rings the doorbell and at the same time the Nokia tune is broadcast from Mycroft’s mobile. Mycroft’s fingers are not steady enough to click the answer button on the touch screen. Anxiety tries to conquer his persona again after the first failure. He concentrates and tries to use his chin to keep the phone more stable on the bathtub edge. He tries to command his hand not to shake too much and he manages to open the communication at Lestrade’s second call.

“Gregory,” he exhales with a deep breath.

“Mycroft, I am here in front of the gate, let me in.”

“Gregory, you should see in front of you a keyboard. You need to type 07876439. You should hear a beeping sound afterwards and a green light should appear below the keyboard.” He hears the sound while he is talking to Greg. “Perfect, now you need to type 5t723401ef, it is the alarm deactivation code. The same beeping sound should follow with a second green light on a side of the first one”. The last word is welcomed by a loud BEEP. “Lastly, the entrance door. You can open it from the same keyboard, code…” _God please no_. Mycroft searches his brain but the last code is misplaced somewhere. The tears that disappeared when he heard Lestrade arrive, are now back in full force. He normally never forgets. In particular something so important as the house codes.

“Mycroft? I did not hear any code.”

Mycroft is panicking, he feels powerless and scared. He would like to answer but words do not come.  “Gregory…” he rasps. What is the word that means …later? Stay there? How useless he has become. Tears flow again. Pathetic.  Useless and pathetic.

“Mycroft?” Greg’s voice sounds alarmed.

Oh, he has the codes, Anthea sends them each morning via text. Yes, yes, in the mobile. Mycroft is furiously tapping on the screen with almost numb fingers and finally manages to rasp a “843t07trvterv7.”

It does not take much longer before he hears someone fumbling with the entrance door, opening it, followed by some unsure steps in the hallway. Indeed, Greg has never been in his house. Mycroft is now trembling without any signs of stopping. He tries his best to make his voice sound steady, but a sort of squawk is all that comes out. He tries again. “Gregory, third door on the right.”

He hears steps accelerating towards his direction and, although he feels dazed, he tries the loudest “Gregory!” he is capable of, just realizing afterwards that he is totally naked in the bathtub, probably looking as ridiculous as a clown.

Greg enters the en suite and sees Mycroft in the bathtub shivering. He looks dazed, his eyes are glassy and his head is dangling on one side, resting on his shoulder. The first thing that crosses Greg's mind is to call an ambulance, but if that had been what Mycroft had wanted, he would not have called him. Therefore, he fetches a big towel that he finds hanging on a hook and wraps his friend, who looks at him with resignation. He lifts him from the bathtub - he is not heavy - and feels the shivers going from the redhead's body to his, as if they wanted to underline the turmoil of his own thoughts and feelings.

The situation is so awkward. He has the man he is infatuated with in his arms, naked besides a towel he has wrapped around him and… there is nothing sexual about it. There is just an enormous feeling of protectiveness that is radiating from his stomach and is almost overwhelming. He hopes to do the right thing.

He puts Mycroft in bed and covers him with the duvet. Mycroft seems to doze off, but Greg needs to be sure that he is all right. He needs some small confirmation that no permanent damage has been done by the enormous stubbornness of the Government official. He does not even want to think about the days that Mycroft has spent alone in this house without any available help. He could have died simply from falling….  

The shivering is subsiding. Mycroft’s skin is less pale than it was, goose bumps not present any more. Slight color is returning to his cheeks. Greg looks at him, at this powerful man now so fragile, and puts a hand on his head, caressing it.

“Mycroft I know you want to sleep, but I just need to be sure that you are ok.”

“Mmmmmm” is what he gets as an answer.

“Mycroft, I am going to stay here tonight, I won’t leave you alone and tomorrow we are going to talk. Are you ok?”

A hand is approaching his, while Mycroft's eyes are still closed. It finds his hand and clasps it. He believes he hears him murmur “stay”. And he does.     

***

The next morning Mycroft wakes up in his bed, feeling rather relaxed. It is a feeling he has not had for a while. He opens his eyes and, in disbelief, sees the Detective Inspector asleep on the armchair in his room, still in his work clothes and with blue bags under his eyes. Then the memories of last night flood his brain. He made a fool of himself; stuck in a bathtub, not even able to get out of it. Naked. Mycroft regrets having woken up, he would like to go back to unconsciousness. In that very moment, Greg stirs. His neck must be in pain, he has slept in such an awkward and uncomfortable position. A few second later, Mycroft finds himself being examined by two concerned caring brown eyes.

“Mycroft? Oh my God, how do you feel?”

Mycroft swallows. “Fine, Gregory. Thank you so much for your help yesterday. I underestimated the difficulties of getting out of the … bathtub.”

“You are welcome. I hope you have now realized that you cannot stay alone during the night. What if your mobile was not in reach? What if you had fallen and lost consciousness? It is too dangerous!” Greg is trying to stand up, but some of his limbs are numb due to the weird sleeping position.

“Gregory, I really am not able to accept someone staying here in the night and helping me with… washing and the like.” He does not want to explain or embarrass himself more; he hopes this explanation is enough for Gregory.

“Do you have a spare room?”

“Yes, of course I do, more than one.”

“Then I have a proposal. I am coming here to sleep every day after work. I'll take one of your guestrooms, the closest to your bedroom. I will help with whatever you need and you will apprise me of your boundaries. I promise I will let you have your privacy, but in case something happens… I am available. Of course, I will leave as soon as you do not need this type of help anymore.”

Mycroft looks in wonder this amazing man and is astonished by his kindness. Why is he doing this?

“It is too burdensome of a commitment. You do not know how long it will take for me to get back to full independency.”

“Then do it for me, please. I would be worried sick every night knowing that you are here alone. You don’t want that, do you?”

Mycroft has to smile. Maybe they have an agreement.

Greg moves into one of his guestrooms and starts living with him.

***

A sheet of paper hidden in his trousers that he has to destroy every evening is the only way he has to enter the house. He has been reduced to swallowing that damn piece of paper some days not knowing what to do to hide its presence or to be sure that it is not going to be discovered. For example, when he changed his clothes for a soccer match with friends. He will never be able to learn the daily codes by heart, he is not Mycroft. And they change every day!

Exhausted, he enters his temporary home as now he calls it, and looks around searching for the owner. No light, no sounds. Mycroft cannot have left the house, Claude would have texted him. He gets nervous and quickens his pace, searching for Mycroft in all the rooms. He finally finds him in his bedroom, laying supine on the bed, features twisted from pain, eyes tightly shut, and he can hear his heavy, quick breathing.

“Mycroft?”

The government official turns slightly towards him, winces in pain and answers with a soft moan. Greg gets closer and touches his arm. Another groan. He can also clearly see tears forming at the corners of the redhead's eyes, slowly falling down. He must be in unbearable pain. Greg looks for any obvious signs of injury or wounds, he can only see that the area around the scar is red and looks irritated. Hair is not growing back in that area too, while on the rest of the scalp there is soft, bright red fuzz maybe a couple of millimeters long.

“Mycroft? Can you tell me where you feel pain?”

The man’s eyes shut even tighter and his left hand touches his head.

“Right. I understand. I believe I need to call the doctor.” Greg wants the advice of Dr Vishakha, and wants to be sure that if they have to go to the ER, someone who knows Mycroft’s condition will see him. He calls the doctor, keeping one hand on Mycroft’s arm. He does not know whether he does it to support the man or to support himself. There is a thought in the back of his mind that he does not want to contemplate. _What if the cancer is already back?_

He places Mycroft in the wheelchair and then in the minivan. While driving to London Bridge, Mycroft throws up on himself and on the car seat upholstery. The miserable look in Mycroft's eyes will probably haunt him for the next decade. Greg decides that stopping for cleaning will not help anyone, so he simply starts praying to any deity willing to listen for no more difficulties. Finally they reach the ER.

Luckily, the medical staff are waiting, surround Mycroft when he arrives and put him on a stretcher without giving a shit of the mess the man is in. He follows them, not knowing whether he has stains on his clothes, but he does not care either. He finds Dr Vishakha already reading Mycroft's files and giving orders to the paramedics. She nods at him and he knows what to do: he grabs one of the plastic chairs, sits, and waits until Mycroft's evaluation is finished.

He did not have much time to think in the past week, he was simply working, taking care of Mycroft, and trying to sleep. He probably wanted to avoid thoughts. He always believed that he was good at taking care of people. In this case, he feels that Mycroft's life is fading away, slipping through his fingers and he is barely a witness to it. He is scared, scared for his friend but most of all he is scared because he feels powerless and is afraid that this damn illness can strike anyone at any time, without warning. It is worse than any imaginary monster… a monster created by your own body that slowly destroys you from the inside and you can do nothing about it. Even the most powerful man in England can do nothing about this monster, which is eating up his most prized organ. 

Dr Vishakha soon reappears. She is serious, but does not look too worried. Greg starts to hope.

“Oedema,” she announces. It could have been Chinese. She probably realizes it and continues. “Sorry, it is late also for me. Radiotherapy to the brain may cause a short-term swelling in the treatment area, which raises the pressure in the brain. This can be frightening because you might think your treatment hasn't worked and that the tumour is growing. We call this oedema. It can make the symptoms worse and cause headaches, seizures and nausea. He will have to take steroids from now on.”

“Will the steroids resolve it?” Greg inquires.

“Most probably yes, however they will make him even more tired.”

Greg looks so disheartened after her sentence that the doctor pats his shoulder.

***

Days seem to be identical. Greg is almost scared to return home, to get the report from Claude (God bless the woman, she is fantastic) and to help Mycroft wash and get ready for bed. The man is exhausted and simply fading away, there is no more spark in his eyes, or the strength he has seen when he was steering the British Government. It has all been replaced by despair and resignation. The skin on Mycroft's scalp is getting redder and redder and he applies moisturizing cream on it every evening after his shower. Luckily, he can shave Mycroft’s hair without touching that part, because it is still bald.

There have been short visits by Anthea, the woman is notifying him in advance when she is coming because Greg wants to be at home. He does not trust her fully and Anthea understands it. She believes that Mycroft can resume working after the radiotherapy ends, however Greg is not so sure. Mycroft can barely sit on the wheel chair, he is always extremely tired. He knows that it is one of the side effects of the radio, but he also knows that there are permanent effects in Mycroft’s brain that they have not been able to fully appreciated yet. Probably when the tiredness lifts a bit, Mycroft will understand his situation better. And he might feel even worse than he does now.

***

The final day of radiotherapy should be a day to celebrate. On the contrary, Greg feels like he would like to hide in a pothole and disappear from the face of the earth. Mycroft looks like a hunted animal; he has lost a lot of weight and probably also hope. The agonizing pain is clearly visible in his eyes and Greg has nightmares of those desperate eyes pleading with him to do something. That evening, he prepares dinner and then helps Mycroft with washing, as usual. While massaging his scalp, Mycroft's body basically laid down on his legs, Mycroft murmurs, “Is this life, Gregory?”

Greg looks down at the official, his heart breaking. Mycroft looks like he would like to say something more. His mouth is still open, but either he decides not to, or he has used up his available energy.  Greg helps him to bed, where Mycroft resumes talking. “Let me go, Gregory. Please.” Greg pretends not to have understood, tucks in the blanket and switches off the light.

Greg goes back to the guestroom and removes his clothes, carelessly throwing them one by one on the chair next to the window. The trousers hit the armrest and fall on the floor. Greg does not care; he is too mentally exhausted to be interested in the fate of some garment.

He does not think he has been so tired in his life. It is not physical tiredness, or at least not only. Due to his work, he is used to night shifts, to interrupted sleep, to running like mad around London. Now, he has to admit, since he has moved into Mycroft’s house his life is more regular. He eats better because Claude prepares his meals, he comes home at a reasonable hour, besides emergencies of course. He has regular 6/7 hours of sleep a night, which really did not happen often in his police officer career. Notwithstanding all the above, he feels at the verge of a collapse. Maybe this is how someone feels before a breakdown. Maybe it is time that he goes to a therapist, instead of constantly pushing Mycroft to consult one.  

Greg sits on the bed, puts his elbows on his thighs and holds his head with both hands. He does not see a way out. How can he help Mycroft? He cannot rewire his brain or remove the pain and tiredness from his body. He cannot remove all the carcinogenic cells from him. He cannot reconnect neurons that have been cut or reform those which have been lost. Maybe…maybe being a friend is not enough. A friend cannot change – or can do it only partially – the general quality of life of someone. If that quality is not enough to consider life worth it…. Is it even correct to push Mycroft to live a life he does not want, if it is all too much for him? What does Greg know about the pain Mycroft is experiencing? Damn, he is not a doctor, nor a psychiatrist. He needs a miracle but unfortunately he does not even believe in God. In this situation, he wish he did, at least he would have someone to pray to. Suddenly, he feels a certain wetness on his knees and he looks down. He is crying and big tears are falling on his trousers, two patches of wetness are now forming on his kneecaps. The sight of the patches somehow unlocks the restraints he has put around his feelings and he starts sobbing until his eyes dry and tears cannot come out any more.

 


	6. step by step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised it was getting better and it does.   
> (and continuous thanks to my amazing beta)

 

Greg arrives at Mycroft’s home late, surprised to find Claude still there arguing with Mycroft. Well, Mycroft is arguing, in his firm and commanding voice. As he removes his jacket, places his keys on the table and his suitcase on the floor, he understands from the discussion he hears that the 2 months checkup was a success: no sign of recurring cancer. This should be a source of joy! But no, it seems that something is totally wrong.

Suddenly Claude, red in the face, runs towards him and he has to shift to avoid a collision.

“Claude, what on earth-“

“I need to go home, Mr Lestrade! I have had enough, your turn to deal with him!” she mutters and leaves, letting quietness fall on the house.

Greg is still facing the door taken by Claude, when Mycroft rolls in. “I will fire her.”

“You will do nothing of the sort.” Greg rebuts, knowing how vital Claude is. They are simply blessed to have her as a daily help. Whatever has happened surely does not call for such an extreme measure.

Greg looks at Mycroft, his blue-grey eyes are sparkling, and anger is evident from the firm set of his jaw. “That woman is telling me what I have to do!” Mycroft is appalled.

“Mycroft, I think it is part of her job. Care to explain to me what has happened?”

If looks could kill, he would be dead. Mycroft scoffs and explains, “This morning I went to the checkup, Claude was with me. I had a physical evaluation and a MRI. No sign of cancer.”

Greg is waiting for the “but”, however the statement needs at least a comment. “And this is great, Mycroft!”

Mycroft grumbles and continues. “The doctor was not pleased with the progress of my rehabilitation. She said that I should exercise more, use the walker and perform basic daily tasks. Claude agrees with that opinion, she has tried to make me squeeze a small ball with my hand since we have arrived at home! She did not stop fussing until I gave up and obeyed!”

Greg cannot help smiling. Of course Mycroft, prim and proper, would get offended if confronted with the humble task of squeezing a ball, in particular if the silly task ended up being strenuous and difficult, given his condition. “I agree with it too, Mycroft. They are right, you need to put more effort into your rehabilitation.”

“Gregory! They want me to raise my trousers with a stick and a hook! I should learn to fasten my shirt buttons with a tool! It is shameful! I am not going to do it. I will wait till my body has healed enough to go back to normal.”

Greg swallows. That is the real issue, then. There is no point is beating around the bush. “Mycroft, although you will improve a lot, you won’t go back to how you were before. Some weakness on your right side will stay. This is why they teach you how to perform daily tasks in a different way.”

“It is only a matter of time. My brain is strong enough. My body will heal and I will be able to function properly.” Mycroft repeats, tapping with the left hand on the armrest of the wheelchair.

“No.” Greg gently states.

They stare at each other for few seconds. Mycroft is livid.

“I am not handicapped!” Mycroft shouts.

“Yes, you are!” Greg yells back. He stops abruptly. Oh God, he has let the cat out of the bag. Well, maybe the hard way is what is needed.

Mycroft is pale in shock, but Greg does not allow it to affect him and continues, “And the sooner you accept it, the better you will be, because you will be able to move on and go back to a full life!”

The sound a wounded animal would make escapes from Mycroft’s lips. He stares at Greg for few more seconds and rolls away, slamming the door of his room.

Greg does not see Mycroft for the whole evening, he stays inside his room with the door shut. Greg is afraid that the man may hurt himself trying to wash himself or simply going to the toilet on his own. However, he is sure that trying to force the situation would bring even worse consequences. He tries to eavesdrop on any sound coming from the room, but only silence meets him.

The next morning the situation does not change, Mycroft is still barricaded in his bedroom. Greg decides to wait for the arrival of Claude and explains the situation to her, not in detail, of course, but he says they had an argument and he has not seen Mycroft since yesterday evening. Claude promises to keep her eyes open and check whether Mycroft is somehow injured.

Claude is waiting for him when he comes back from the Met. She looks concerned and anxious, hands fidgeting. “Mr Holmes has eaten something, but not much. However, he hasn’t allowed me to wash him or help him with any task relating to his personal hygiene. I know that you normally deal with them, and the fact that yesterday evening and this morning Mr Holmes hasn’t had his usual shower, given his maniac care for cleanliness… I don’t know, it does not sound right. I worry that he will attempt to do it on his own. Moreover, since 7 p.m., he has been inside his room and has closed the door.”

Greg agrees with Claude’s concern. “Thank you, Claude. I will try to talk to him and see what I can do. If I don’t manage to shower him tonight, we need a plan for tomorrow morning. Go home to your family now, and thanks again.”

Claude nods and takes her jacket, ready to leave. After a few steps towards the door, she stops and turns. “Mr Lestrade, I know that it is none of my business, but I have been working with many patients in my nursing career and I firmly believe Mr Holmes should talk to someone. He had a life-changing operation, he needs physiological help, a support group or something similar. It could help him a lot.” 

Greg lets out a long sigh. “I completely agree with you, Claude. Unfortunately, I don’t think that Mycroft is ready for it. At least not yet.” He does not add that he fears Mycroft will never be.

Claude goes home.

During the evening at one point Greg hears the sound of running water coming from Mycroft’s room. It is not the shower, Mycroft must have opened the tap of the sink. There are some muffled water splashes, which quickly stop. Greg stands in front of Mycroft’s door for a while, just in case he hears some cries or a request for help. Nothing happens.    

Greg is torn between barging in the room and ascertaining whether Mycroft needs help, or respecting Mycroft and waiting until he is ready to talk to him again. The risk is that Mycroft might kick him out of his house, if he pushes too much. Greg goes into the office and takes a piece of paper and a pen. He writes a message that he slides under Mycroft's door. “ _I miss you_ ” is all it says.

***

Mycroft is in bed and sees a little sheet of paper slipping through the door. He is too tired to get up again, which would require moving to the wheelchair and then finding a way to fetch the damn piece of paper from the floor. If he tries to bend, he might fall off the chair and getting back in is just too difficult.

He just would like all this to stop. He knew from the beginning, from that damn diagnosis, that he is not made for this life. He does not want to be a goldfish. He wants to have his brain back, to be able to understand the world again, and not struggle with banal problems. He is tired. A tiredness that does not go away with a good night sleep or with holiday. A tiredness that has penetrated in his bones, his heart and his soul, which just makes life – this life – meaningless. He wish he could sleep forever, in a self-induced coma that would make him stop thinking altogether.

As if in answer to his prayers, Mycroft falls asleep.

The next morning, he gets up and manages to move into the wheelchair. He is reminded of the happenings of the day before and that the sheet of paper is still on the floor. Mycroft approaches it and does not even have to bend to read it. There are only a few words on it, big enough to be seen while sitting. “ _I miss you_.” A thrill of joy goes through his body. He has never been missed by anyone.

***

The same morning, Greg waits for Claude. “Nothing happened in the night, I haven’t seen him. He has decided to remain confined in his room. I believe he needs some washing but he is not going to accept your help, so I propose that you prepare a basin full of warm water and place it on the stool in the bathroom. Maybe put the soap dispenser and some towels in reach too. It is the only thing I can come up with to help him. Please be careful and if something happens, just call me.”

In the evening, Claude reports to him that indeed, the basin, soap and towels have been used. However, Mycroft’s mood has not improved and he still refuses any help, the door of the roomwas shut again at 7 p.m. A new message from Greg, with the same content as the previous one, is slid under the door, but it does not lead to any positive outcome, still no sign of Mycroft. In the morning, after speaking with Claude, they decide to repeat the washbasin arrangement and hope for the best.

Greg does not see Mycroft for four long days. He is scared and worried for the man. He knows he has made a mistake to force him to face his biggest fear so abruptly, which is to have “weaknesses” and not be able to return to normality, but he is still convinced that illusions will not help the recovery. He wishes he and Mycroft had started a relationship before this nightmare had begun, because he could have provided a better emotional support. Now, a beginning of intimacy would be an abuse of Mycroft’s fragile physiological condition. Greg feels selfishly frustrated and disappointed.  Having the man so close and so much in need of comfort, and not being able to cradle him in his arms and soothe him, is maddening. However, he is not self-absorbed and he is there for Mycroft, not to fulfill his desires.

At the end of the fourth day, after Claude has left to go home, and when Greg is about ready to call the doctor for advice, the door to Mycroft’s room opens. Greg is in the living room, reading a book selected from Mycroft’s immense library, and hears the creaking of the door’s hinges. He is almost too scared to move.

The soft electrical buzzing of the wheelchair announces Mycroft’s arrival. He enters the living room but does not make any eye contact. “Would you be so kind to help me with the shower?” Mycroft asks, voice so low that Greg is not completely sure to have understood correctly. Greg immediately stands up and follows Mycroft into his bathroom.

Greg has to use all his mental strength not to be overwhelmed by emotions. Mycroft has lost even more weight and he is only skin and bones. His eyes are sunken in his skull and his cheeks are hollow. He looks older and sick. He still does not look at Greg.

Greg uses all the gentleness he is capable of to undress him, place him in the chair in the bathtub – _Lord, he weights nothing_ – and wash him, with warm water and a lot of scented soap, the one that Mycroft likes. He washes his scalp, patches of hair still short but in need of being shaved again, and massages all his limbs, moving them as a father would do with a child. Tears form in the corners of Greg’s eyes and he has to fight to push them back. It is not the moment to make Mycroft feel even worse displaying his concerns.   

***

The following days, they go back to their routine, Claude bringing Mycroft to his therapy sessions in the morning and taking care of him during the afternoons when he is working in his home office, and Greg helping him with cleaning and dinner in the evening and breakfast in the early morning.

Anthea comes more and more often to see Mycroft and they close the door of the home office and discuss whatever national defense matter is necessary. Mycroft is resuming some of his previous responsibilities Greg suspects, although he believes it is probably too early. The man is however a single unit with his work and being able to think about something other than therapy and cancer could be a good distraction.

Greg's relationship with Anthea has improved dramatically, nonetheless every time he sees her with Mycroft he feels a tug at his heart for fear that she is  there for other reasons besides work. Greg is aware that Anthea has behaved amazingly and she is doing her best to help Mycroft, but he cannot forget that one of her tasks is to kill him. He needs to make peace with this prospect because they need to cooperate with each other to provide Mycroft with the best home and working environment possible.

***

“You then believe that I will never be able to do what I was able to do before.” Mycroft states casually, hiding any emotion. They are in the living room in front of the fireplace, just after dinner.

Greg looks up from the book he was reading on the sofa (Mycroft’s library is a goldmine) and gently answers, “On the contrary, I believe you can go back to doing almost everything you were doing before.”

“Why did you call me handicapped?”

“Because you have limitations, Mycroft, that most probably, although I hate to say it, will never go away and the sooner you face this reality, the sooner you can improve.”

Mycroft bites his lower lip. “I do not understand how these two statements can both be valid.”

Greg’s heart is aching for the man, he would like to hold him in his arms, but he knows it is not possible. _Time, he needs time,_ he thinks.

“Mycroft, do you remember when I was completely soaked in water and I had a shower in your office? When you had one of your first seizures?”

“How can I forget?” Mycroft asks, a bit perplexed by the change in topic.

“Do you remember that I found you wearing your blue glasses while reading your documents?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, that’s the whole idea at the end.”

From the glare he receives, he believes that Mycroft is convinced he is feverish and delirious, so he tries to explain a bit more. “Look, reading was difficult, wasn’t it? I mean, without glasses. That was the reason you bought them. However, with your glasses on, it became as easy as it was during your youth. Now, it is substantially the same with everything else. Maybe not everything is adjustable as easily as wearing a pair of glasses, but I am sure that there are ways to compensate for what your body cannot do autonomously any more. It is like having many pairs of different glasses for different uses. And the earlier you decide to wear them, the earlier you can go back to normal life.”

He sees the wheels turning in Mycroft’s head. He believes – after few minutes of silence – that the conversation is over, so he picks up the book again, when Mycroft adds “All these pairs of glasses are going to be seen as a plurality of weaknesses by everyone. I cannot be considered weak in my line of work.”

Greg closes the book again. “On the contrary, Mycroft. Many have been defeated by cancer or by its consequences. Very few on the other hand have defeated cancer claiming their own life back. It is not a weakness; it is a sign of strength.” 

***

_“The seeds of the 1997-98 Asian financial crisis were sown during the previous decade when these countries were experiencing unprecedented economic growth. Although there were and remain important differences between the individual countries, a number of elements were common too most. Exports had long been the engine of economic growth in these countries. However, the political changes in China made in –“_

Mycroft stops typing. He knew the exact date when the political labor changes had been made in China. Why can't he remember it anymore? With a sigh, he tries to search for the information a bit longer in his brain. He never used to forget anything. Well, before the operation. Anger starts to fill up his body. Why? It has never been an issue before, he could read something once and remember it, forever.

His hand grabs the keyboard and he makes the movement to throw it in the middle of the room, but he stops midair. He concentrates on his breathing to calm down. Maybe… he takes the mobile and calls Greg, who answers immediately.

“Mycroft? Is everything ok? Shall I come home?” Greg sounds worried.

“Gregory, no, no need to. I simply have a question. What…what do you do when you forget something? Like a date of an event for example? How do you act in such a case?”

There is silence on the other side for few seconds. “I generally…google it.”

“You google it?”

“Yes, you know, I go on the Internet and just type in …I don’t know … date in which Roosevelt became president. And the answer pops up on its own. It is very easy nowadays. It was much more complicated when I was a kid because then I had to go to the library and search in the Encyclopedia.”

Mycroft starts typing on the rescued keyboard. Labor change in China. 1994 is the result. Yes, he recalls it, it is correct. Maybe this googling thing….

“Mycroft? Are you still there?”

“Yes Gregory, sorry. I was… checking the validity of your advice.”

A small laugh is the answer. “And I even have another trick, you know? I forget things easily. So I write everything I have to do in a small organizer. So I am sure I don’t forget what I have to do in the coming days.”

“An organizer?”

“Yes… oh sorry Mycroft, Donovan is calling me. I can explain when I see you tonight!” and the communication is interrupted.

Still somehow dubious, Mycroft send a text to Anthea: “Please bring an organizer tomorrow.” It could be another pair of glasses added to the pile.

***

Fish and chips. Mycroft is almost outraged by the food Greg brought home. He has a strict diet and he is following it with care. He has enough health issues to not risk adding one more to them. Greg stops all the complaints he is venting by informing him that he has talked to Dr Vishakha, who agreed with him and in addition she wholeheartedly recommended some more fun here and there. “ _Some fun means eating fish and chips? I have different ideas about fun,_ ” Mycroft cannot avoid thinking. However, Greg's smile is so broad and the man is so excited that he is forced to agree to the proposed dinner. “ _Fish and chips won’t kill me,_ ” or at least Mycroft hopes so.

“Myc, you should really try this, it’s delicious.” Greg closes his eyes in ~~a~~ pure gastronomical bliss, while putting another chip in his mouth, all his fingers greasy with oil.

Mycroft freezes. _Lord, please do not allow this, not from him._ “You called me ‘Myc’?” Mycroft inquisitorially asks.

Greg tilts his head to one side, a common gesture when he is assessing a new situation. “You don’t like it?”

Mycroft does not want to discuss this topic, too many old wounds that threaten to reopen, but he has learned his lesson in these past months, so…honesty. “No, I don’t. I really cannot stand it. My mother called me that and she still uses it, together with Mike, Mycie and variations on the theme.”

He hopes Greg can understand. The man, as usual, does, his empathy probably more impressive than Mycroft’s intelligence. He puts the fork down and summarizes, “So it is not that you don’t like nicknames, you just don’t like those which remind you of your childhood and your parents. They must have embarrassed you deeply.” After this nonchalant statement condensing a few years of Mycroft’s struggles, Greg starts eating again with gusto. “You know, nicknames are what friends do,” he casually adds. Mycroft stores the information for further analysis and use. He was not aware that this friendship business was such a complicated issue. He has so much to learn and he hopes Greg is going to be patient enough. For the first time, Mycroft realizes that he really might like it.

***

Mycroft has a strenuous rehabilitation session in the morning. He feels his entire right side aching and even his head is pulsing in mild pain. It was worth it. 

At home, he positions the walker in the hallway and waits for Greg’s arrival in his office, finishing the draft for the agreement Anthea has given him after lunch. Claude is frivolously smiling at him, but he does not let this affect his preparation. Silly woman. The damn little ball is there on his desk. No matter what he does to make it disappear - throwing it under the bookshelf or in the garbage bin - it is always back there in front of him. It must have an integrated GPS tracker. Or the woman is a wizard. 

When he hears the sound of keys in the lock and the door opening, Mycroft approaches the hallway with the wheelchair and stops it in front of the walker. He stands up and grabs the walker handle with both hands. He is wearing a foot brace on his right foot to avoid a foot drop and thus toppling over. He puts all his determination in the task and slowly but resolutely he shifts the walker forward and follows it with one step after the other. It is unbearably slow, but he is moving. He does not look in front of him, he is focused on his feet, as if he could move them with the power of his mind. He hears keys falling on the floor followed by a duller thud. Greg's suitcase. He risks peeking from behind his eyelashes and he is greeted with a gaping Greg looking at him in disbelief. Mycroft continues to walk toward the policeman, whose lips morph into an amazingly brilliant smile.

Mycroft feels a strange flutter in the pit of his stomach, and he looks away. He imagines being hugged and held by Greg, but he knows it will never happen. Before the operation, he could have had some hope, and even then, he knew he had so little to offer. Now, it is just not possible. Who wants a broken handicapped man in his life?

He would never have imagined that Greg had to restrain himself immensely from snogging him senseless.

***

“I am able to take care of myself for an evening.” Mycroft decides to inform Greg while they are having dinner.

Mycroft internally smiles seeing Greg frozen with the fork in midair and decides to take pity on the man. “I have been informed that you usually attend regular meetings with Dr Watson, once or twice per fortnight. I believe neglecting a friend is not a proper course of action, as you have explained to me.”

Greg starts eating again and after few bites he explains, “Oh well, not real meetings, Mycroft, just a couple of pints at the pub, possibly accompanied by a nice football match on TV. It is a good way of spending a relaxing evening after a day chasing criminals on my side, and at the clinic on his. However, it is nothing that can’t be postponed and, as you said, John is a friend and he understands that I am busy with something else at the moment.”

“I thank you for your consideration, however I firmly believe that my condition is stable and good enough at the moment to allow you to resume these pint-and-match rendezvous of yours.”

Greg seems to consider the statement. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, and you would do me a favor. I had to endure a long sequence of texts from my brother this afternoon, who was complaining that, due to the lack of “dull venting opportunities”, his words, Dr Watson forces him to watch boring sport events on TV ruining his experiments. So for the sake of my mental health, and Sherlock’s, please bring Dr Watson out for the next sportive happening.”

Mycroft has learned to enjoy the quiet domesticity of their evenings, however he does not want to constrain Greg at home. He is learning that friends are a good resource and they need care and attention. He cannot deny harboring a jealous feeling, but he also knows that it is totally silly and unfounded. Jealous of what, in any case? Of Greg having more than him as a friend? Of the fact that this additional friend has his brother at the center of all his attentions? Probably, he is indeed jealous of Sherlock, who managed to start a serious relationship in his life, something that he has never been capable of. Now, in any case, he has missed the last train.

Greg touches his forearm gently. “Sherlock is talking to you then.”

As usual, the man understands much more than the content of his words. “Yes, and in his own way he has even apologized for the scene at the hospital. He understands that mother does not always have the most appropriate behavior.”

“So Mr I-do-not-text has started sending messages to the world, has he?” The pressure on his arm increases and Greg smiles.

Mycroft leans into the touch a bit. “I realized that it can be a useful way of communicating, in particular when the addressee is not ready to have a full standard conversation.”

Mycroft feels a sense of loss when Greg’s hand leaves his arm. The warmth of the man was reassuring and calming him. He is lucky, he reminds himself, to have such a good friend devoting so much of his time to his well-being. He is going to have a permanent debt towards the inspector.

***

“Mycroft, where are you?” Greg is puzzled to see the light off in both the living room and the office. Mycroft is generally always in one of these rooms when he comes back from work unless he is not feeling well, in which case he is in the sleeping room. He hears noises from somewhere else, so he is not in bed.

“In the kitchen.”

Steps resonate in the hallway. “Claude didn't prepare dinner?” enquires Greg while sniffing the air. Pots are on the stove, food is cooking.

Mycroft is in front of the kitchen island with a chopping board on it. The chopping board has spikes, on which vegetables are pierced. In this way, they can be cut using a single hand and this is what Mycroft is doing, stopping regularly to put them in the pan.

Greg raises an eyebrow in question.

“The doctor told me that I have to resume some basic daily activities, which can help me in improving my mobility. I decided to go back cooking. I liked it when I had some spare time.”

Greg grins. “I am really looking forward to tasting it.”

In that very moment, a piece of zucchini escapes from Mycroft’s grip and is thrown against Greg’s chest, falling to the ground. Mycroft looks mortified; Greg just takes the piece, washes it and puts it back on the chopping board for Mycroft to cut. Mycroft sighs and keeps on cutting single-handed.

***

“Mate, I’m glad you made it.” The calm greeting smile of John Watson is welcome, as well as the two pints that are already on the table. It is Wednesday evening, so the pub is not crowded and John has managed to find a good corner table where they can talk undisturbed if they want.

“Me too, believe me, me too. An evening without medications, cancer related discussions and problems is … like fresh air.” Greg feels extremely guilty about this though, and to compensate he has fussed around Mycroft for at least an hour to be sure that he could go out to have a pint without endangering his safety. Mycroft promised to call him immediately if something was wrong or worrying him.

“It is not easy to live with a chronically ill person, Greg. What you are doing for Mycroft is admirable.”

Greg runs a hand through his silver hair. “I’m not really doing anything special, Mycroft is a friend, you know, and I care for him.”

“A friend?”

Greg manages not to blush. “Yes, a friend. There is nothing more between us.”

“If you say so….” John sips his pint, the foam forms a nice white moustache above his lip and he licks it away.

“Am I that obvious?” There is no point in hiding his interest for Mycroft, in particular to John, who is together with Sherlock.

“You have been rather obvious for a long while, to be honest. Sherlock has been commenting about your nonsense crush on his brother for ages, making disgusted faces at the thought of the two of you shagging.”

“Pffft. We are very, very far from shagging, John. Not that I am not interested, mind you. It is just that we did not get there before the ordeal and now….”

“And now?” John shows real interest in listening. God bless good old steady John.

“And now I am bloody scared. The first two months after the surgery have been pure hell. Mycroft was constantly vomiting, losing hair, behaving strangely. On top of this, he was completely exhausted and in pain, with that damn right half of his body not cooperating at all. Falling, not being able to wash himself, to attend to his basic needs. I was sure that he was going to jump out of the window to stop the nightmare, so most of the time I was simply checking whether he was still alive. I don’t think I could have coped with that much longer.” Greg shivers at the memory.

“Is it better now?”

“Better yes, not completely fine, however. He is now willing to try; at least that is my impression. A small sparkle of something more in his eyes makes me hope that he wants to live. And then of course there is the problem whether the illness will allow him to live.” Greg’s head sinks between his shoulders while he drinks from the glass.

“You are allowed to have feelings too, you know.” John's hand is on his arm, the doctor voice soothing him. “What is the latest prognosis?”

“From what I know, given the type of cancer he had, it is not the worst possible. As far as I understand, the operation was a success and they have removed the cancer completely. This cancer likely comes back, I get it, but in his case the probability of it is somehow lower than average. Then, when it comes to his nonfunctioning side….well... there will be some improvement, but not much.”

“Greg, he had a type III brain cancer. A complete excision is the best you can hope for, followed by chemotherapy and radiotherapy sessions, as he did. He is receiving the best possible treatment. Regarding the hemiparesis, he has to learn to live with it and find alternative solutions to perform the same tasks he was doing before.” John pauses, looks at Greg and smirks. “I am explaining this to Sherlock every day too, even without your last information. He is rather terrified.”

“Sherlock terrified? From his show at the hospital, he seemed rather glad to get rid of his brother. I was very close to punching him in the face, you know? Due to some miracle, they are back to talking to each other, at least.” Greg frowns at the memory of the hospital scene.

“Greg, please, living with Mycroft I believe has made you understand that they do not function like normal people.” Greg nods and John continues. “You have met their parents: they have abandoned that role, if they ever held it. Mycroft at least took on the role of a parent for Sherlock. Despite all their bickering, Sherlock is very well aware that without Mycroft, he would not be alive today.  He is terrified to lose the only person who can understand him completely - even I cannot do what Mycroft does - and one of the few who love him. Being terrified for Sherlock however means being more of a brat than usual.”

“How are things going between the two of you?” Greg is very curious about how a relationship with a Holmes may develop, in particular with the difficult Holmes. He also wants to change the topic.

“We lived together for so long before starting it, Greg, that it is not strange it is going surprisingly well. We know each other in detail, we recognizes what makes us happy and the squicks we both have. Sherlock is much more than what he appears to be.”

More than the spoken words, it is the gentle loving smile and the twinkle in his eyes that show Greg how much John is in love with Sherlock.

***

It is Sunday, but Mycroft is still closed in the office. It is definitely too much. Just a few months after a life-threatening operation and the man is in full working mode every day as if nothing has happened. As if Greg could not see the strain it causes to Mycroft.

Greg decides that enough is enough and it is time to stop the madness. Greg knocks on the door and without waiting for an answer, enters.  Mycroft is sitting at his desk, laptop in front of him, eyes red and swollen, tracks of dried tears visible on his face. He is not typing, just looking at the wall as if it could give him some inspiration. Greg has no clue how long Mycroft has been like that.

“Mick?” he tries, regretting it immediately. Another nickname, his favorite, mentioned to a distressed man who hates nicknames.

Mycroft opens his mouth to make a suitably cutting retort, but then his brain fully returns online, and _This is what friends do, nicknames,_ resonates in it. _Friends._ He changes his course of action and replies: “That is definitely better than Myc.”

“Do you like it?” continues Greg, ignoring the physical signs of distress on Mycroft.

“If you really need to use a nickname, that is better than the previous ones you have proposed.” Mycroft closes his eyes.

Greg pushes a bit. “Mick, can you tell me what is wrong?”

 “I just…cannot.” Mycroft looks defeated.

“You can’t what?” Greg tries to understand. 

“I was used to working countless hours. When there was a need, a problem, I could focus on it for days, without the need of sleeping or eating. I could use all my energy to solve the puzzle, to find the missing link. Now…. It is different. After few hours, 4, maybe 5 when I am lucky, I cannot do it for any longer. I am tired, almost exhausted. I lose concentration and my brain is not willing to cooperate anymore.” Mycroft looks utterly shaken.

Greg understands that for the government official this is a turning point. Work has been his whole life.

“Mick, I believe the 4 or 5 hours you spend on a case are equivalent to the 4/5 days anyone else spends on it, and they don't even reach your results.” He puts a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“It is so…difficult. I am not used to having these limitations. I must admit it is incredibly frustrating.” Mycroft’s voice quivers.

Greg takes a chair and sits adjacent to Mycroft, putting his hand back on his shoulder. “Mick, I don’t have a formula to solve all this. I can only say that what you give to the Government is much more than anyone else could give. I understand that not being able to do what you did before is frustrating, but believe me you are still exceptional.” He lets the admiration he has for the man show in his eyes.

They sit in silence for a while, and Greg decides to risk it and slowly moves an arm so as to circle Mycroft’s waist and pulls the man towards him.

Mycroft murmurs, “You accept me like this.” It is not a question.

Greg understands the importance of the statement and he wants to underline it. He nods, moving his chin on Mycroft scalp. “Yes, I do.” Greg feels Mycroft relaxing in his embrace, his bald head resting on his shoulder. Tentatively, Mycroft’s arms embrace him and Greg slowly moves his hand in circles on Mycroft’s back, a soothing movement his mother performed every time he as a child was in distress. Probably no one ever did something soothing for Mycroft during his childhood, Greg thinks, his heart aching not for the first time at the thought of Mycroft’s past experiences. We are the result of our past, Greg considers, and to reprogram ourselves after so many years of conditioning is not the easiest task. Greg knows that Mycroft is trying hard to trust him and to see and judge himself with different tools than the ones his parents had given him. But it is hard and Greg understands it, although he is beginning to see the first cracks in the fortress. He keeps Mycroft in his arms, quietly murmuring some calming gentle endearments, until he feels Mycroft dozing off.

***

Honestly, Mycroft is good at the cooking business. Most evenings, he is the one preparing dinner. Greg is rather thrilled to come home and see the government official busy in the kitchen.

Dinner time is also confession time.

In front of a bowl of vegetarian cous cous, Mycroft declares, “I have asked Anthea to submit the request to change my position to a part-time one. I do not think I can handle more working hours than those I am currently doing. I am on a reduced working time due to medical reasons, and I want to keep it as it is.”

Although the tone is calm, Greg is sure that Mycroft internally is not. It is an admission of irreversibility, the first one he clearly hears from the man. Greg puts his hand on top of Mycroft’s. “I think it is a very wise decision.”

Mycroft grabs his hand and holds it for a while, as if he needs it to ground himself.  

***

Next Sunday, Mycroft spontaneously hugs Greg from behind. It is the first time ever that Mycroft initiates any physical contact between them. And a hug, above all.

Greg is refilling the sideboard with the groceries he has bought at Tesco’s when he feels Mycroft arms around him. He is so surprised that he freezes a little, unfortunately startling Mycroft who starts a long chain of hurried apologies and steps back holding his rollator.

Greg turns to watch him. Mycroft looks like a deer caught in the headlights and Greg knows that he has to reassure him if he wants Mycroft to initiate contact again.

“You know how I feel for you, don’t you?”

Mycroft looks at him as if he had grown another head.

“What do you mean, Gregory?”

“I think I was pretty clear in your office a week before your operation.”

Mycroft’s cheeks turn pink. “I thought … it was different then.”

Of course, the man. Let him linger in the misery that he himself creates. “Mycroft, why on earth was it different then?”

Mycroft waves a hand pointing at his body. “This was different. I was not handicapped. Now, I am a handicapped man who will probably die soon.”

Many thoughts pass through Greg’s mind, all at an amazing speed. He could explain, make him understand, discuss, but those would be just words, and Mycroft is so used to words. There is just one course of action, Greg decides. He takes both of Mycroft’s hands and removes them from the rollator, taking care not to take him off balance. He then fiercely hugs the former redhead, strong and determined, trying to convey his feelings with his body.

Mycroft does nothing.

“Mick, I don’t want to impose anything on you. You have not fully recovered, and a new relationship, if you are interested in having one with me, needs an awareness that I don’t know if you have in this very moment. I don’t want to take advantage of you in your weak state.”

A nervous laughter is audible from Mycroft’s lips. “You, taking advantage of me? Is this a joke, Gregory?”

Greg dares to look at him. “No, it is not, and I am indeed pretty serious. I have no intention of harming you.”

In all honesty, Mycroft would simply like to scream. “You sincerely believe that you are going to take advantage of me? You, a man who could have anyone, take advantage of me, a handicapped man not able to move properly and definitely not the symbol of male beauty?”

Greg’s arms tighten around Mycroft. “Can we stop all this please? I explained my feelings once; I don’t think I can do it again without making a fool out of myself. I sincerely, profoundly, like you, Mick. But, in case you are interested, I only want to move forward when you are ready.”

Mycroft slowly puts his arms around Greg and closes his eyes. “I…I am interested, Gregory. I am just… not good at it. I am …scared. Please, help me in doing this right.”

Two middle aged men, both battered by a not always kind life, spent the next hour, maybe two, just holding each other and whispering kind words into each other ears. The world outside could wait.  

***

The next morning, after breakfast, Greg prepares himself to leave for the Met. He is probably going to meet Sherlock. He is so absorbed in his thoughts that he does not realize when, before leaving, he pulls Mycroft towards him and pecks him on the cheek. He definitely does not regret that.

From that day on, every morning Mycroft shyly but resolutely shows up at the entrance door to get his kiss.

Greg is very happy to notice that a bit of flesh has started filling up Mick’s cheeks again.

***

During his lunch break, Greg receives a message from Mycroft that the 4 months checkup was negative. Still cancer free. Greg cannot avoid grinning like an idiot for the whole afternoon. Sally even asks whether he has seen a naked woman. He would like to reply “ _much better, Sally, much better_ ”, but he bites his tongue. He just wants to go home.

 

 

 


	7. intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the road to recovery also involves intimacy....  
> (this chapter is rather explicit)

“Mick, I am back,” Greg yells as soon as he manages to open the door after typing an incredible amount of security codes. He will never get used to that, even after so many months of living in this house. He hears some music coming from the kitchen, so, after removing his coat, he approaches that room, where something definitely smells good.

Mick is at the worktop, chopping vegetables, wearing an apron with his sleeves rolled up and looking domestically sexy, according to Greg. The appointed cook turns his head for a brief moment and smiles, a small but sincere one. “Welcome back, I have almost finished preparing dinner, however it will take some time before it is cooked and ready to eat. The beef is already in the oven, it needs a further 75 minutes. I am almost done with assembling the side dishes.”

Greg smiles at the welcome, approaches and traps the redhead between his arms putting both his hands on the worktop, one on either side of Mycroft. “I’m glad I finished early today. We have something to celebrate, namely the 4 months checkup! I have to thank your brother. He was on his best behavior this afternoon, I must say. He only offended half of my team, and the insults were mild in comparison to the usual ones.” Mycroft keeps smiling and does not stop chopping, while Greg keeps him caged. The pieces of vegetables, of astonishingly equal dimensions, end up in a pan, which is in turn put on the stove. As soon as Mycroft switches it on and regulates it at the minimum power, Greg starts nuzzling at the back of his neck, sniffing him at the same time. Suddenly, Mycroft turns leveraging on his good leg and they find themselves face to face, so close that they are basically touching. 

“ _Time to dare too_ ” thinks Greg.        

Tentatively, Greg puts his arms around Mycroft’s waist and squeezes gently, so as not to make him lose balance. Mycroft tenses slightly but adjusts and hugs him with his bad arm, encircling his waist and leaning on him, while his good hand moves shyly toward his head and fingers find their way to his silver hair. They kiss tentatively, slowly, and explore their bodies just pressing and having mutual contact, nothing is rushed or hurried. Greg knows that fragile tendrils of trust are projecting from Mycroft – reaching and embracing him - and he has to treat them with ~~o~~ utmost care to avoid any damage. It is their first “real” kiss after the operation and it is like a kiss between two different people. Gently, Greg starts licking Mycroft’s lips until they part and his tongue can enter Mick’s mouth. The touch between their tongues generates the first sparks of arousal in both of them and they both stop, as if they agreed on the moment to do so.

Greg looks at Mick, who appears positively ruffled, and can hear his accelerated breathing. He can see desire in his widened stormy blue-gray eyes, together with fear and embarrassment. None of the three emotions has prevailed yet, and Greg understands that he has to take the lead in order to make one –hopefully desire - topple the other two. Mick is otherwise probably going to retreat again inside his head with his thoughts of being unworthy.

He cups Mick’s face with one hand and starts caressing his cheek with his thumb. “Would you like to continue this in the bedroom?” he asks softly, still holding Mycroft very close with the other arm. He senses Mycroft stiffening, so he adds “We go as far as you want, maybe just hold each other in bed?” A small nod is all he gets as an answer, but, for the moment, it has to be enough.

As with all displacements, moving from the kitchen to Mycroft’s bedroom requires time and patience. Witnessing Mycroft exerting the massive Holmesian will-power in putting one step in front of the other while holding the rollator should have wavered any sexual excitement in anyone. However, Greg admires it and is dragged towards this vision of sheer determination that pushes slowly but irremovably ahead, eyes staring at the floor, hands clenched around the rollator’s beam, a frown on his face. He wants to kiss him again, to tell him that he is perfect, that he admires his will and efforts, but he knows better and remains silent.

In the bedroom, exhausted by the task, Mycroft angles the rollator and sits on the bed, looking at Greg, not moving. Greg sits next to him and resumes the kissing. He opens Mycroft’s shirt, constantly checking for signs of discomfort, taking it slow, and in the meantime licks either Mick’s lips or neck. He feels like a cat, but Mycroft’s taste is just delicious, and the one being licked is not complaining either. On the contrary, Mick is trying to muffle lovely little whimpering noises caused by this type of attention. “ _If only he knew how sexy he actually is…_ ” thinks Greg. Before removing Mick’s shirt, Greg starts unbuttoning his own. When completely open, Mycroft stops Greg’s hands, pulls the sleeves of Greg’s shirt down his arms to remove it and starts caressing his chest, clearly admiring him. “You are beautiful,” he says, so quietly that Greg is not completely sure he heard it. The strokes on his chest do not cease, they widen in amplitude and maybe even an extra pressure is applied. Greg leans forward and starts removing Mick’s shirt too, but he immediately senses the tension building up again in Mycroft’s body, Mick’s eyes averting his. He has seen Mick’s naked body several times, so at first Greg does not understand this reluctance. It was not a big issue the other times. Then Greg realizes the difference. The previous times, he could see, touch and hold Mick’s body because there was a need, a duty to help, whether he liked or enjoyed that body was totally irrelevant. Now, there is a choice, he is willingly choosing to touch and view that body, and Mick is worried about his reaction.

“You are beautiful too,” he tells Mick. The answer to it is a huff followed by a disbelieving frown. “Oh come on, can’t you see my body's reaction to yours? Activate your deducing skills, please. And, for the record, I never thought one day I’d want to say that to a Holmes.” There is indeed quite an uncomfortable bulge in Greg’s trousers that he is sure could not have escaped Mick’s analytical eyes.

“I haven’t done this for a very long while.” A change of topic is one of Mick’s typical reactions to discomfort.

“How long are we talking about?”

“26 years, 4 months, 3 weeks and 2 days.”

Greg swallows and answers: “Right. So, in view of full disclosure, I haven’t been with a man for … uhm… more than 25 years. The last time was in a bar before I met my wife-to-be, and then the sex after divorce has been confined to women.” He looks at Mycroft, who is still looking everywhere but at him and then continues, because he knows that the man needs some reassurance. “Listen, I am attracted to you, but attraction is not the only thing on the table. I am not interested in a one-night-stand. I would like to have a proper relationship with you, which also involves sex, if you want it too. Ok, we might be a bit out of practice, but this has not stopped anyone, has it?” And without even waiting for an answer, he removes Mick’s shirt completely and pushes the man on the mattress so that now he is lying on his back on the sheets. Greg takes care of the rest of his own clothes and then starts removing Mick’s shoes, socks and trousers, always looking ~~at~~ the man in the eyes and paying attention to any possible distressed sound, which could indicate a denial or refusal. Greg knows that Mick is not going to assist him in this, too insecure about his body and his appeal as a partner, so Greg has to do it himself and simply try to discern if a “no”  means “use caution, but please continue” or does a “no” really mean “stop” from Mick’s side. Greg really wants this to work, not only tonight, but also for the long haul. Long haul. Long. “ _Fuck!_ ” he thinks “It _is not the time to think about life expectations after ~~a~~ brain surgery when the damn type of cancer – anaplastica whatever - that Mick has is involved. We will face the problems when…” _  A hand encircling his wrist shakes Greg out of his thoughts and brings him back to reality. They are both naked, in Mick’s luxurious bed, and the genius is laying on his back, looking at him with full-blown eyes and a hopefulness in his face that makes Greg’s heart melt. Greg kisses him on his jaw and starts exploring Mick’s body with his hands gently and slowly, lying close to him. He grabs Mick's hips and rolls him on one side so that they are facing each other. Greg is not having enough skin contact; Mick’s scent and skin texture are driving him crazy.      

Greg pulls Mycroft closer and, when their dicks make contact, Mick moans and arches his back. His right side seems to be more immobile than usual, but his left side compensates the lack of movement of the other half with constant muscle contractions, leaning towards Greg’s touch and trying to make contact with his body as much as possible. Greg loves to see Mycroft letting ~~it~~ go, discovering his sensual side, and he is entranced by the effect that simple gentle strokes of his hands and contact with his body can have on the brilliant man.

As suddenly as they started, Mycroft’s movements and sounds stop. Greg raises his head – he was still licking Mycroft’s neck - and glances at him in an inquiring manner. “Mick?” he asks. Not receiving any answer, Greg starts worrying whether they have moved too fast. “Do you want to stop?” he tries again. Mycroft tightens his lips together, not willing to meet his gaze and keeps looking down, embarrassment showing in his features. Greg needs to blink a couple of times before getting it. He gives a gentle peck on Mycroft's cheek and slowly caresses his head, before getting off the bed and moving to the bathroom. He grabs a small bucket, which is there exactly for this purpose. They don’t have to explain too much to each other, they have done it many times. Too much physical effort or exertion and Mycroft’s brain starts sending nonsense signals which make him vomit all of a sudden, without any warning. Not the most erotic sight, but Greg knows with whom he wants to have a relationship and what it entails. They want to share some bodily fluids, don’t they? It is just one added to the list. No need to be squeamish.  

He gets back to the bed with the bucket and puts it at Mycroft's side. Myself hasn't moved from where he was. Greg is already up so he fetches some supplies. He is not really willing to interrupt their activity again. Condoms are not needed, both their blood test results came back clean. He had no doubt about it, but it is better to be careful. “ _So, let’s find some lube_ ”, Greg contemplates, looking around the room, while Mick’s eyes are following his movements.

“Bed-side table on my left, second drawer.”  Of course the genius knows what Greg is searching for. Greg retrieves the lube and sits back on the bed, squeezing out a nut-sized amount of lube and coating his hands with it. He slyly looks at Mycroft and takes his cock in his hands, slowly caressing it, which causes a long “ooohhhhh God” from the redhead.

After a few caresses, Greg asks “Can I touch you down here, Mick?” moving his free hand towards Mycroft's hole. Mick moans again and Greg takes it as a yes.

Without stopping his caressing of Mick’s cock, he slowly circles Mick’s hole with his finger, until he believes Mick is ready to accept its entrance. He pushes in and Mick arches and shouts, “Greg!” Greg stops but does not withdraw, he waits for Mick to adapt. Bending to kiss the tip of Mycroft’s cock, Greg continues his ministrations and moves his finger back and forth, till Mick says breathless, “Greg, please, another one,” and Greg nother another finger. The addition causes a sort of spasm in Mick and Greg quickly reaches for the bucket, just in case. Mick opens his eyes, which had been tightly shut in pleasure, sees Greg and the bucket, and looks mortified. His erection starts subsiding. “I am sorry Greg. I told you, I am not an appropriate partner for you. You did not consider all the consequences of entering in a partnership with a useless man like….”

“Oh for God’s sake, stop all this, Mick! We have had this discussion already several times. I don’t care about the consequences of the brain cancer, no wait, of course I care, what I mean is that I am fine with it, this is you and you are the person I want to have a relationship with, you ridiculous man!” Greg’s words are heated and delivered with a rather high tone of voice. He is not angry, but he is not willing to let Mick go back to his martyrdom. 

Mick’s face softens understanding the feeling behind Greg’s words and surprises him with, “You are holding a bucket in one hand in case I vomit and the other hand has two fingers inside my anus. And you claim I am the ridiculous person here?” Greg tries to stifle a laugh, but he substantially fails and a very much undignified noise escapes his mouth. Mycroft at first tries to look affronted, but then, throws his head backwards and starts laughing. Not a simple laugh, a full belly one, where his whole body shakes and tears form at the corners of his eyes. Greg is mesmerized by seeing Mycroft like this, unrestrained, with mirth in his eyes. He can’t take his eyes off him and he realizes he does love this man. He removes his fingers from Mick’s ass and, when the amount of laughing subsides, he bites his lips, squeezes some more lube onto his hand and lies down partially on top of Mycroft, who is looking at his hands with curiosity. Greg takes both their cocks with his lubed hand and starts stroking. After a few strokes, he feels Mick’s hand on top of his and from that moment on things become muddled. Whether he is crying or Mick is and who is pleading for more is irrelevant. Their movements become frantic and with a hip motion and a roar Greg comes, followed quickly by Mycroft. 

Greg’s brain is still fuzzy and he is not completely coherent, but he clearly hears Mick saying that there is a pretty strong smell of burned food coming from the kitchen and he can deduce that the vegetables probably will not be part of dinner. They look at each other and resume laughing.

***

Greg knows that a night of sex cannot cancel all of Mycroft’s insecurities. He gets glimpses of the man staring at his own reflection in front of the mirror, not really pleased with what he is seeing. But at least he is looking, not simply passing without stopping as he was before. The small smiles he gets from Mick, together with the less pronounced suspicious looks, (just mentioning that a color suits him or that the cut of a certain pair of trousers is perfect to show off his long legs causes them) are heartbreaking. Greg has to initiate intimate contact every time because Mick is still too afraid of rejection. But Greg is patient, and in love.

***

“They will not regrow completely.”

Greg is now used to Mick’s out-of-the-blue statements during dinner. He knows that he just has to wait a little bit and Mycroft comes down to the mortal world from the Empyrean of his brain and explains himself. Indeed, it takes just few more bites of lasagna to make Mick more talkative.

“There are patches on my scalp where the hair bulbs have been destroyed by radiation so there is no possibility that the hair will regrow there. I have no intention of having a piebald hairstyle, so the options are either that I continue to shave my head as I am doing now, or that I start wearing a wig.”

Greg loves Mick’s hair color. The real color, not the color of the dye Mycroft has used since early adulthood to cover the lovely red, that fantastic, bright, luminous red Mick is so ashamed of and which is a nice companion of the freckles that are decorating his lover's body. He would like that hair back, without dye, but it is not possible. The wig option is admittedly ridiculous, and anyhow he has access to a part of the body where Mick is very ginger…  

“Can I have a say on it?”

Mycroft looks at him a bit surprised. “Of course. What would you like me to do?”

“Well, I believe you would look gorgeous with a blue wig having long curl-“

A piece of bread lands on his nose.

“Is that a no?” Greg grins.

Mick’s eyes are playful and Greg feels embarrassed getting a hard on just by looking at the man being happy.

***

Greg comes home late. It was a long day, three murders, most likely performed by the same assassin. His team is still collecting evidence, the crime scene being a total mess. He probably has to call Sherlock in. He has not done it yet because he knew that today Mycroft was meeting his parents and the situation was dire enough without the addition of another crazy variable. He wanted to be present at the meeting, but Mick had forbidden it, saying that it was time for him to handle it on his own. Greg thinks that Mick has always handled everything on his own very sufficiently for a couple of lifetimes, but he knows Mick well enough to realize that, when Mick is that determined and steel shows in his eyes,  there is no point in discussing it further. He is aware that Mick is right, he has so much animosity towards them. His wish is to punch Mick’s parents repeatedly or at least shout at them, but they are Holmes' too and he believes these actions will not be beneficial for anyone. He can shield Mycroft however, if he is allowed to do so. He is rather scared of what he will find at home, about the status of Mick’s beautiful mind. There is so much already on the government official’s shoulders.

Mick is sitting on the sofa in the living room. Only one lamp is switched on, the one close to Mick. There is not much light in the room, very long, dark shadows are creating a looming atmosphere. Greg looks at the man sitting with sagged shoulders and worries. Mick looks exhausted. However…. However, he does not look beaten or defeated, just extremely tired, the steel core is still visible though his eyes. Greg releases a breath. Maybe it was not a complete catastrophe. “Mick?” he tentatively enquires.

Mick looks up and rises, one hand on the rollator. His face turns beautifully pink, as if he is very embarrassed, and, out of the blue, starts a very long speech where big complex words are used, uttered as fast as the firing of a machine gun. Greg is focused on just few of them: “anal penetration” he gets, as well as “anal intercourse”. At the end of his monologue, Mick stretches out a hand, which is slightly shaking. Greg takes it and pulls Mycroft towards the bedroom, without asking any questions. 

A half paralyzed body does not really provide many options for sex positions, on all fours being impossible for Mycroft and face to face means that Greg has to lift Mick’s bad leg which is a dead weight. However, after a couple of embarrassing trial-and-error experiments, it works magnificently.

Basking in the afterglow, with Mycroft in Greg’s arms and their legs entangled, Mycroft starts speaking. “They came to check my progress and to see whether I am back to working full time. I told them I am not, and that I probably never will be, just because my body cannot take it. They were not really pleased, mother underlying my lack of character.” He sighs and continues, “She said that if I cannot use my brain properly then I am really not of much use, not having other qualities to spare.” Greg feels an iron grip on his heart and holds Mycroft tighter and closer, releasing his grip only to caress his body here and there.  “I said I was sorry to have disappointed her again, but unfortunately the activities of my brain and of my body are not completely under my control. She replied that I should do something about it. They left not long after.” He pauses and then he adds, “They did not ask how the latest check-ups went." Mick folds a little bit in himself, curling in Greg’s embrace. 

Greg continues caressing Mycroft’s head and holds him tight. “I love you,” he whispers before even thinking about the weight of what he has said. Silence follows. Greg does not regret admitting it, it is the truth and it has been for a while. However, he is worried about Mick’s reaction. Then, Mick looks up from the cocoon formed by the duvet and Greg’s arms and smiles softly, “I know,” he says, and this settles the discussion.

***

Days are sequenced by a tight schedule, due to Greg’s demanding job and Mycroft’s therapies, exams and saving the country part-time.

They are both getting better in managing their sex life despite the limitations. They are finding what works for them in the way of intimacy. Normality is overvalued, and its meaning somewhat diffuse. Who should care that the way in which they make love does not conform to the classical Kamasutra positions or to one of the most commonly performed ones?  It works for them and that is the only thing that matters.

Here and there, their technique still needs some refinement. When Greg decides that it is time that Mick tries to top him, the arrangement is complex. Greg places himself on his hands and knees and Mick positions himself behind ~~of~~ Greg’s butt, using Greg’s hips as a support to be able to stand on his knees.  After the fourth time Mick loses his balance and falls on Greg, with the ensuing entanglement of limbs Greg murmurs, “Bloody Holmes, you have to fuck my asshole, not my ear canal.” He then flips Mick on his back and proceeds to impale himself on his cock, riding him until Mick shouts his name.

Mycroft will never admit the decibel of his cry even under torture.  

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Greg feels slightly disappointed when Mycroft decides to go to the 6 months checkup without him. He realizes that their relationship is new, that a checkup involves many raw emotions and Mycroft might have been frightened by showing all of them in his presence. On the other hand, while their relationship may be recent, their knowledge of each other is not, they have been friends for a very long time. He cannot avoid a trace of hurt.

All the above does not matter any more when he receives a message from Mycroft that everything went perfectly. No sign of recurring cancer and the checkups have been rescheduled from ~~a~~ bimonthly to one every three months. 

Greg’s heart goes back to beating normally.

¬¬¬¬

“So how is it going with just-your-friend-Mycroft?” John’s smirk could not have been wider.

Of course John is aware that their relationship has changed. Damn Sherlock and his superpowers. He wishes he could see the messages the two brothers are exchanging. Probably they are –  for him - as indecipherable as Chinese.

“Shut up, you! Shall I remind you of the “I am not gay” time?”

John laughs. “Come on, don’t be so touchy. If it helps, I can confirm that it is worth it to have a Holmes in your life.”

Greg smiles and places two big glasses of amber liquid in front of them. “Pints on me tonight.” 

“What are we celebrating?”

“The 6 months cancer-free checkup. "

The doctor in John understands immediately. “Cheers mate, then. To many many more of these. " They clink their glasses together.

“You definitely look happy, and I think it is due to more than the good news on the 6 months checkup.”

“I am, John, I am. Mycroft is opening up in a way I haven’t even imagined before. It does not take much, you know, a bit of….basic care and tenderness and …. He would give you everything.”

John smiles knowingly. “This is the typical Holmes behavior. When they decide to care, they care completely. Be careful Greg, from what Sherlock has told me, you are the first person Mycroft has allowed to get close to him. He is incredibly fragile.”

“Do you think I want to harm him?” utters Greg, incredulous.

“Greg don’t misunderstand me, but you have started a relationship with a man who never had a relationship in all his life besides casual shags, and who saw his life turned upside down just few months ago. A man who never wanted anyone close and who decided now to put all his trust in your hands. You can kill him, if you want. If you do, you will kill Sherlock at the same time.”

John is looking at him under his eyelashes.

“John, is this the “If you harm him, I will kill you” speech on behalf of Sherlock?”

John nods imperceptibly and adds, “You cannot have a casual relationship with a Holmes.”

Greg needs to make a point very clear. “John, it is not casual. Not at all, at least from my side.”

“I trust you, Greg. I do not think many people are as good and honest as you are. I am glad for you and Mycroft, sincerely glad. I even believe that he is very good for you too. You also deserve happiness and Mycroft will never cheat on you as your wife did, rest assured. If you get a Holmes loving you, I think you get them for life unless you break their trust.”

Greg looks at John, who seems quiet and relaxed, enjoying his pint. He knows that it is a mask and a steel core is hidden underneath John’s fluffy jumpers. Hurting Mycroft would also destroy Greg with the ensuing guilt and John knows him well enough to notice this too.  He knows that his friend is warning him not because he does not trust him, but because he cares and he wants him to realize that a relationship like the one he has with Mycroft is different than standard, it includes more responsibilities than standard.

He would not change it.

***     

It is Sunday morning, 8 o’clock.  Greg is barely awake, he was hoping for a lovely lie in, the 6-day work week had been stressful and long. Murderers seem to multiply at a high speed (probably murderers are very sexually active) and they never go on strike. Despite all this, someone has glued himself on the doorbell and does not give up. He kisses Mycroft on the head, jumps out of bed and decides to check the monitor connected to the cameras surveying the street in front of the house. The silhouettes of John and Sherlock appear on the screen, the hand of Sherlock on the doorbell, John trying to remove it and consequently being swatted away.

He presses the button of the intercom so that they can hear him. “Guys, it is very early on a Sunday morning. At least give me 5 minutes to put on some clothes.” The sentence is followed by a yawn that he does not try to conceal. He activates the opening of the gate and disconnects the alarm.

Greg’s head is still inside the shirt while he is pulling it down, when a loud banging at the door starts and a few seconds later the door opens. Of course Sherlock knows all security codes.  “I am coming, I am coming, what the hell is going on?” Greg rushes to the entrance door barefoot. The consultant detective is striding trough the hallway aiming for Mycroft’s bedroom. Their room for a couple of months.

No way. Greg places himself in the middle of the hallway, legs and arms wide apart. Sherlock has to climb over him if he wants to reach Mycroft.

“Move, Geoff.”

“I won’t, Sherlock. And it’s Greg, by the way.”

Sherlock gives him a surprised gaze. “Why not? I need to talk to Mycroft.”

John, who was walking behind Sherlock, comes to the rescue.

“Sherlock, they just got up. Give your brother a couple of minutes and then you can talk to him. I told you that it was definitely too early to barge in here.”

Sherlock scoffs. “I have no time to waste.” He looks ready to throw a tantrum.

Greg is definitely not going to allow Sherlock to enter Mycroft’s room when Mycroft is still in bed or slowly moving towards the bathroom. In the morning, Mycroft is in the most vulnerable condition, he needs time to regain all his motor functions and stability. He prefers to block Sherlock with his body than hear his mean cutting remarks about Mycroft’s status.

“I could have tea in the meantime. We rushed out without having breakfast,” John supplies, pulling Sherlock's coat from behind.

The promise of tea seems to work and Sherlock visibly calms down. With the danger less pronounced, Greg moves from the middle of the hallway into the kitchen and turns the kettle on. “Some scones too? Claude, our day nurse, prepares something that can compete with Mrs Hudson's baking results.”

“With pleasure!” John is dragging Sherlock towards the kitchen. “As I said, the berk here shoveled us out of the flat before I could even brush my teeth.”

Greg laughs, while setting some china cups and plates on the table.

In order to gain time for Mycroft, Greg starts discussing the last case he is investigating with Sherlock. The trick works, the consulting detective is always eager to show off his deductions. Between descriptions of body parts and John inserting pieces of scones into Sherlock’s mouth, a significant amount of time passes, allowing Mycroft to roll out of the room completely dressed and properly groomed. Greg is beaming with pride at his improvements in using the various assistive tools he is provided with.

John greets him with a “Good morning, Mycroft.”

“We need to talk,” Sherlock begins, talking over John.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but nods while proffering “Good morning, Dr Watson.”

With a mutual unspoken understanding, the Holmes brothers synchronously move, one rolling, the other walking, toward the office and they close the door.

Greg panics. He might be overprotective of Mycroft, but it is not the time nor the place for some insults. Mycroft has enough without adding some brotherly hate and he is determined to protect him. Only John's gaze keeps him from following the brothers.

“Greg, relax.” John is quietly sitting while soaking biscuits in the tea and eating them, as if nothing is happening in the adjacent room.

“Mycroft is still fragile, you mentioned it too, he can’t have someone twisting the knife in his wounds!”

Another tea-soaked biscuit disappears in John’s mouth. “He is here to apologize.”

Greg makes a disbelieving face. “Yes, and I come from Mars!”

“Greg, let them have a chance. Their constant quarrel is not helping ~~any~~ either of them. Sherlock is here with the best of intentions and Mycroft knows him, he can separate real haste from Sherlock’s social ineptitude.”

Greg sags on the chair. “I won’t cope with a serious setback, John.”

A friendly yet strong hand reaches his back to rub it. “I won’t allow it either.” John is sincere and Greg minimally relaxes.

John tries to occupy their time with stories from the clinic or the craziest Sherlockian experiments at 221B Baker Street. It partially works, because the opening of the door of the office surprises Greg, who jumps up from the chair. The Holmes’ brothers look uninjured, and no loud yelling has been heard from outside while they were talking. The expression on their faces is impenetrable, but this is nothing new.

“John, we need to go.” Sherlock orders, coat already on, moving towards the door.

Greg will never understand how John can stand all this constant micromanaging of his life. Love is blind, and probably also more handicapped than that, he thinks.

John grabs some scones, yelps a “Bye,” and runs after Sherlock. The door is loudly smashed behind them.

Greg is almost scared to look at Mycroft, in case any damage is visible. He feels guilty, but he knows that his resources are limited and gluing Mycroft’s pieces together again would probably be too much for him. It would hurt too much, destroying both of them. It is self-preservation, the same instinct that allowed him to sign the divorce papers after his wife had cheated on him for the nth time, although he strongly believed in his vows.

He hears a buzz and then feels a hand on his. “I think I need some rest now. Would you mind coming back to bed with me?”

Greg dares some eye contact. There are no evident signs of stress on Mycroft, who might even be sporting a pleased expression. Greg loudly exhales. “I am definitely coming with you.”

They remove their clothes - Mycroft is taking longer but he is doing it autonomously with the help of the tools he has learned to use - and meet under the blankets, skin on skin, soul on soul. Greg’s caresses are innocent, meant to soothe more than to excite, but after a short while, he feels Mycroft’s erection against his thigh.

“What would you like?”

Mycroft blushes becoming bright pink. He is still not capable ~~to~~ of stating his wishes aloud when it comes to intimacy. Years of “no one will ever love you” have formed scars that Greg is convinced, even with all the love of this world, will not fade.  If it weren’t incredibly sad, his flustered face would be endearing.

He tries a step-by-step approach, nibbling his earlobe. “Something quick or we take our time?”

“We…we are not in a hurry.”

Greg was not even expecting a response. The strategy might be a winning one, then.

“More on the gentle or on the rough side?”

“Although with Sherlock everything went well, I had my dose of rough for today.”

This is definitely going to work. Maybe he can dare even something more direct.

“Top, bottom or none of the two?”

Mycroft’s voice gets feebler, but he is still answering. “Bottom.”

Greg gladly smiles. “As you wish, beautiful.”

It is incredibly easy to turn Mycroft on. Yes, it sounds like an oxymoron, but it is the pure truth. It is enough to stroke his skin a bit, to murmur gentle words in his ear and … the job is done. The Iceman nickname is something so far from reality that it is really like a cruel joke. The man is craving gentle contact.

Greg reaches for the lube and coats his fingers. While one hand is working on Mycroft’s hole, the other keeps on caressing his skin and his mouth is kissing his nipples and his neck. Mycroft loves to have his long freckled neck kissed. The fact that Mycroft is now bald helps too: there is a special spot, where the spine meets the skull on the back of the head, which is very sensitive and now completely visible. Greg has learned that a kiss there produces amazing results, so a little extra exploration might be worth it. He starts lapping the spot, while he inserts a finger into Mycroft. He feels Mycroft shivering. Slowly but steadily, he inserts a second and then a third finger, scissoring them in order to open Mick and avoid any discomfort during penetration.

There is a position which is comfortable for Mycroft, and it is now their favorite one: spooning.  Mycroft is the small spoon on his right side, so that he can move his left leg freely and Greg can enter him easily from behind as the big spoon. It does not require ~~s~~ any lifting effort from Greg or balancing exercises from Mycroft, it just works perfectly. Mick is so excited today from all Greg’s touching and kissing that Greg dares to bottom up in a single swift movement. He gains a cry out of it.

With his hands, he plays with Mycroft’s nipples, pinching and rolling them, while he licks the notch at the back of Mycroft’s neck and gently thrusts in and out of him. He has never heard Mycroft so vocal.  He purposely leaves Mick’s cock untouched and when he notices any movement of Mick’s hands to touch it, he blocks them. Mycroft is a complete mess, writhing and wriggling around his cock, trying to grind against the bed sheets to obtain some friction. 

Greg needs to use all his self-control not to come due to the constant contractions of Mycroft’s sphincter muscles around his penis. He wants this to be good for Mycroft so he starts thinking about Sherlock. Luckily, it helps him to move from the edge, and he can manage to quicken his trusts without coming in order to bring his lover to orgasm. Semen is shot onto the bed, and Greg has to stifle a laugh at the thought that he has managed to push Mycroft into making a mess, his always formal, correct man. He happily comes while laughing.

Needless to say, after the post-coital fog has lifted, Mycroft is looking with total disdain at the sticky semen patches on the bed, probably believing that he could burn them just by staring. “I will change the sheets,” Greg offers. Mycroft simply shifts closer to him, farther from the stains, and puts his head on ~~his~~ Greg's chest, bringing the blanket with him. Greg checks that all Mycroft’s limbs are properly arranged and settles in the nest they have created.

Greg starts caressing Mycroft’s head. He has always loved it; nonetheless, at the beginning, he was rather reluctant to do it because he did not want to remind the man of one of the side effects of cancer, the lack of hair. However, Mick has never complained, so he regularly pets his scalp.

“He wanted to know why I did not take him with me.”

Greg just keeps on stroking.

“I explained to him that I was too young, I could not take care of a teenager while I was trying to find my way and establish myself in the hierarchy of the government. That was not even the only reason. My parents would not have allowed it and I had also thought that Sherlock did not want to have anything to do with me. On top of all this, I had Eurus' secret to keep and the farthest I was from my family, the easier it was.”

“Sherlock is angry because you left him with your parents when you went first to Uni and then to work?”

Besides the absurdity of the allegation, only Sherlock can decide to invade their house at 8 o’clock on Sunday morning to discuss something that took place 30 years ago.

“Yes, he felt left behind, that I did not want him. I explained myself, that it was definitely not my intent. I think he understood. We should have had this discussion many years ago. Sherlock suffered immensely alone without anyone to talk to for years.”

“Your parents did-“

Mycroft stops him with a glare. “No, our parents didn’t.”

Back to stroking.

“Maybe I should have understood it on my own, changed my attitude towards him. A lot of pain could have been spared.”

Greg feels Mycroft curling a bit more around him. “Mycroft, you always cared about Sherlock. I don’t think you could have done more than what you have. You can’t be brother, mother and father at the same time, you were young and in need too.”

Mycroft stays silent for a while on his chest and then asks: “Can you just keep hugging me for a while?”

Greg tightens his arm around him. 

***

“I need you to sign some documents. May I come tomorrow morning while Mr Holmes is having his therapy?” Greg stares at the screen of his mobile. Anthea’s text is rather mysterious. Which type of documents does he have to sign? Why does she want to come when Mycroft is not at home?  He needs to trust Anthea and, inside, he thinks this is the correct course of action. He texts a simple “Yes” back.

On Saturday morning, half an hour after Mycroft has left to the hospital, Anthea rings the bell. She is immaculately dressed as usual and she is carrying a plastic folder containing several documents under her arm.

“Good morning, Lestrade.”

“Good morning, Anthea. Greg would work too after so long.”

Anthea smiles a bit; she does not accept or dismiss the offer. “You are probably wondering why I am here.”

“You are right. Tea?” In the meantime, they have moved from the entrance door to the kitchen. Greg is in his sweatpants and T-shirt, he is not on duty. 

“No, thanks. I have had breakfast already.” Anthea pulls several documents out of the folder and lays them on the kitchen table. The only word visible from where Greg is located is a gigantic “Classified” stamped in red on all of them. 

“You are aware that Mr Holmes has requested to modify his current employment position to a part time one.”

Greg feels that his confirmation is not necessary, however he supplies a “Yes, I am.” What it has to do with him is a different question, however.

“In his request for a change, Mr Holmes has also solicited a modification of his emergency contacts. His previous contact should be replaced by yours.” A form is shifted towards him.

Greg’s heart skips a beat.

“Further, in order to be Mr Holmes’ emergency contact, your clearance level needs to be updated.” A second form follows the first one towards him.

There are several pages in each form, all written in very small letters. A signature is required on each page. His details are already filled in.

“If you need some time to read all this and to think about it, I can come back later.”

“Mycroft has read these documents, hasn’t he?”

“Of course.”

“OK then….” Greg takes a pen from the workbench and signs all pages. He hopes he is not making one of the biggest mistakes in his life, signing his death sentence or something of the sort. He collects the papers, checks that he has signed on all required lines (he is almost certain that the small pencil cross drawn at every place where he has to sign is Mycroft’s work) and hands it all back to Anthea.

“OK, done.”

Anthea smiles. “Thank you, Greg,” she says and heads unaccompanied towards the exit door.

***

“Would you accompany me?”

Greg has no clue what he is talking about, but Mycroft has been shifting food on his plate for 10 minutes, the fact that he is extremely nervous is self-evident. There is only an option for Greg.

“Of course I will.”

Mycroft’s frown relaxes a bit. “I will not be ~~a~~ good company.”

Greg is still lost, but grabs Mycroft’s hand. “It does not matter.”

Greg is gifted by one of Mycroft's rare, sincere  smiles. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, but there is no need to thank me.”

Only at the end of the dinner, after collecting several other clues does Greg understand ~~s~~ that he has just agreed to go with Mycroft to the 9 months checkup.

***

The nurse hurries in his office closely followed by a tall, thin curly-haired person. “Young Mr Holmes did not want to wait and he said he needs to see you immediately.” She looks rather embarrassed; she has not been able to prevent Sherlock from entering the house.

“Claude, do not worry, you know my brother. I will talk to him,” Mycroft affirms, trying to smoothen the situation.

“Young Mr Holmes," Sherlock scoffs, plopping himself down on the chair in front of his desk. He intensively studies Mycroft who is slowly moving towards him with his rollator.

“Will this…” he stops and waves his hand with a flourish indicating the rollator and his persona “…get any better?”

Mycroft looks at his brother. There is no intention of harming or mocking with his statement, probably pure curiosity, possibly concern. “No, most likely this is the best I can get,” Mycroft decides to answer honestly.

There is a hint of puzzlement showing in Sherlock face. “You look happy,” he says, and it is not a question.

Honesty, again. “I am,” Mycroft replies, while approaching the chair close to Sherlock. He sees his brother intent to aid his slow and clumsy maneuvers, but Sherlock blocks himself in time, freezing his movement, understanding that it would have hurt ~~his~~ Mycroft's pride.

“Lestrade?” he inquires.

Mycroft smiles. A small little smile, but more than enough for his brother to understand the deep meaning behind it. “Yes,” he summarizes, implying “ _Yes, Gregory is the major source of my happiness and he has changed my life,_ ” but it is not necessary. Between them, most of the time silences and body language convey much more than mere words.

“Will he stay?” This is a strange question, even for Sherlock. Mycroft attempts to deduce what it means.

“Sherlock, did you have an argument with John? Are you worried about something?”

“No,” is the laconic reply.

Next try. He needs an extra hint and Sherlock provides him with one accordingly. “How do you know that you are enough for him?”

Oh. He was not expecting that. “Do you fear your proposal is going to be unwelcomed?”

Insecurity flickers through his brother’s eyes. Strike.

“I am sure Dr Watson is going to be delighted, Sherlock,” he continues, trying to reassure.

“How do you know?” Sherlock retorts.

“If you do not trust my judgments in the matters of heart, trust Gregory’s. He constantly states that John is completely besotted with you.” The last time Sherlock asked for some reassurance from him was very long ago, and Mycroft feels almost overwhelmed by this change in their relationship. His brother might be doing it in a very awkward way, but for his standards, he is opening up immensely.

Sherlock's eyes are back at looking at him, but insecurity is still present. “I do not know what mother will say.”

Mycroft holds his brother’s gaze. “It does not matter what she will say, Sherlock. I will be on your side, as always.”

A small sign of gratitude appears in his brother’s handsome face. “Thank you,” he says gently, and then switches to his standard unnerving tone. “And of course you have to officiate it. I need you to be alive on the date of the ceremony. Your early demise would be very inconvenient.”

Mycroft smiles. “I will do my very best, Sherlock. I however can’t promise not to die.” He would like to hug his brother, but it is too early. Maybe, one day.

There are no further words from Sherlock, he just turns and, in a whirlwind, leaves Mycroft alone in his home office.

Mycroft sighs happily. For the first time in his life, he has something to look forward to. A partner, a brother who wants him and possibly a brother-in-law.  Yes, Sherlock is right, he is happy, and he wants to keep this happiness at all costs. He has to fight this damn cancer, for Gregory first of all, who selflessly gave himself over to him, put all his feelings in his hands, letting Mycroft decide what to do with them. He never cared whether he could get something back or whether he was going to get hurt. He loves Greg and he deserves to know it.

***

Bedtime is Mycroft’s favorite time of the day. He is not embarrassed anymore to curl up around Greg and rest his head on Greg’s broad chest. Greg’s arms surround ~~s~~ him as soon as he approaches him under the duvet. Soft strokes on his back calm him down if the day has been particularly stressful. Gentle whispered words are always a balm for his old wounds and fill his heart with tenderness.

This is also the time of more serious discussions or confessions, when needed, in the security and comfort of each other's embrace.

“Sherlock is going to propose to John,” he announces.

“Great news! John will be delighted! I definitely want to be at the stag night, it is going to be fun with Sherlock.”

“So you assume that Dr Watson will accept the proposal? "

Greg’s arms tighten their grip a bit. “You Holmeses are weird creatures, aren’t you? With all your mighty intellect, you both are so insecure when it comes to feelings. Of course, John is going to say yes. He is deeply in love with Sherlock.”

Mycroft huffs. “That is what I said to Sherlock. Dr Watson is definitely going to welcome the proposal,” Mycroft ponders a bit and then continues, “But he is afraid. Not being sure of the outcome of an event may have a devastating effect on my brother. Uncertainty can be a deadly trigger for him.”

Greg is slowly caressing the back of his neck. Patience is one of Greg's most prominent qualities. “And he came to you to be reassured. To his big brother.”

This time Mycroft answers with a grunt. “Well, not really. He came to ask me to officiate the ceremony.”

Greg smiles, a broad warm grin brightens his face. “And this – according to Holmesian language – is another of those “I care about you but I am not able to say that”, isn’t it?”

“You are incorrigible. And easily confuted. He ended the discussion asking me to stay alive at least for the ceremony.”

Greg snorts and starts laughing. His hands, Mycroft notices, have moved downwards and have been stroking his hips for a while. A warm sensation fills his belly.

“You like me this way. And you Holmeses are completely crazy.” Greg states, but Mycroft does not want to take the bait yet.

“He was also wondering whether I will go back to normal. He did not like my way of walking.” He knows that some months ago this sentence would have distressed Greg, because not being able to return to having normal body functions was still painful for Mycroft. He has made peace with it and Greg knows it, so they are allowed to make fun of it now. Healing by laughing is a good way to get healthy again, Greg has shown him. 

“He has seen you already before, Mick.”

“You are right, Gregory, but up until now I have always been sitting when Sherlock has barged in to discuss whatever was on his mind. Only today I have demonstrated my walking skills.”

Warm brown eyes are looking into his blue-grey ones with kindness and lust. Mycroft is still somehow incredulous that he can have this amazing man in his bed, in his life. 

“You might not be the master of walking, but there are other activities that you master perfectly,” Greg replies with a husky voice.

Mycroft smiles, it feels so good to be desired. Maybe it is time to show Greg that he has learned something in all these months under Greg’s tender care, that he can take the initiative as well. He slowly tries to rearrange his body moving downwards until he faces Greg’s prick. It is already almost full, thick and proud, surrounded by very dark pubic hair. Greg is looking at him with curiosity. Lying on his bad side should work; his good hand is free to move. He grips the base of Greg’s penis, gently but firmly, and he starts slowly licking it, from the base to the tip. The shocked sounds Greg makes caused by his sudden action are delightfully indecent.

Deep-throating is out of the question, but a gentle sucking and licking of tip and shaft are among his possibilities. And when a Holmes decides to pursue something, very little can stop them. He alternates long licks along the dick length to slow gland suctions, the timing dictated by the change in moans emitted by Greg. His noises, together with Greg’s musky smell, are an aphrodisiac for Mycroft. He never thought he would be the cause of someone else's pleasure. He would like to play with Greg’s balls too, but his bad hand will not be able to do it while having his weight on his right arm, so this is all he can offer. Greg does not seem to mind. ~~~~

He feels his partner’s penis getting turgid and very stiff, Greg must be not very far from coming. The DI surprises him by suddenly retreating and shifting him so that they end up face to face. Greg’s pupils are blown wide. “Together, gorgeous,” he cracks, spitting on his hands and starting to stroke both their pricks. It does not take long for Greg to come, sperm covering his hand and their chests. He takes just a couple of deep breaths before grabbing Mycroft’s dick and finishes him.

Greg goes to the bathroom to fetch a flannel to clean them both. He tosses it on the floor, he will take care of it tomorrow morning. Greg is usually very cuddly after an orgasm and Mycroft loves to get back in his arms. Mycroft needs to take care, though, that his right side is properly placed and there is no pressure on his limbs. He does not feel numbness to them due to his low sensitivity and he could hurt himself easily. After the necessary limb rearrangement, Mycroft finds himself not ready to sleep.

He looks at Greg, who is dozing off. 

“Gregory?”

“Mmmm”

“Gregory?”

At the second call by his name, Greg opens his eyes. “Yes, Mick?”

“Would you like to move in with me?”

Greg blinks a couple of time and looks slightly concerned. “What?” he asks, not sure of what he has heard.

Mycroft repeats, “Would you like to live here, with me, on a permanent basis?”

Greg is now fully awake and looking at him with disbelief. “Mick, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been living here for the past 8 months! I go back to my flat only occasionally.” Greg has a very puzzled expression on his face.

Mycroft smiles and explains himself. “You arrived here 8 months ago because I needed you. The agreement was that you were going to stay here to help me until I was in a condition to go back living alone safely. Now I still need you, for reasons other than my health status, and I would like our living together to be a common choice, a common decision, something that we both wanted, not an arrangement dictated by an emergency. Which means that you could stop paying the rent ~~of~~ on your flat and start considering this place your home.”

Mycroft is not prepared to see the display of emotions in Greg’s eyes. After a few seconds, slow thick tears roll down his cheeks. Mycroft is scared that he has done something completely wrong, all his insecurities crowding his head, but his worries are brought to a halt by Greg’s body plastered on his. “Yes,” he hears repeatedly murmured above his head. “Yes, God, yes”.   

***

“Mick, Mick, where are you?” Greg inquiries from the living room.

Mycroft went back to bed after breakfast, enjoying a lazy Sunday morning reading a book, leaving Greg reading his book in the living room. In bed he has all the supports he needs for his body in the form of pillows, and all the space to place them comfortably. “In our sleeping room,” he answers, his voice loud enough to reach Greg.

Greg enters and smiles. “It’s John. He said he needs to talk to you,” and he hands him the phone.

Mycroft is perplexed, Dr Watson only calls him in case of emergency, but Greg seems very relaxed.

“Dr Watson?”

“Good morning, Mycroft.” John greets him, pauses and then adds, voice a bit shaken, “Well, thank you. It really seems I owe you one.”

It is very rare that Mycroft is taken by surprise, but this is one of those cases. “Dr Watson, you …owe me one? For what reason, pray tell?”

“For helping your brother with the proposal! What else would it be?” John answers.

Mycroft is lost even more than before. “Dr Watson, I assure you that I did not “help my brother” with any proposal and I am rather clueless about what you are hinting at.”

A short laugh is audible from the microphone. Greg is looking at the scene with interest. “Mycroft, this morning your brother woke me up at 6 o’clock bringing a tray of food in the bedroom. That was already an event in itself. I was already looking forward to a cozy breakfast together when he announced, “My brother said that you are besotted with me and that you would be delighted to be my husband. We are going to marry in December. But now I have no time to discuss silly details about it because Molly is waiting for me at the morgue, an interesting specimen has arrived during the night.”  I was so shocked that I did not manage to utter a single word and in any case he was gone even before I had the time to say “yes”.”

Greg explodes in a full belly laugh. Mycroft remains speechless for few seconds and then manages to compose himself. “Dr Watson…I believe congratulations are in order. The truth is that I did not tell Sherlock to-“

“Don’t worry Mycroft. I have known your brother for long enough to understand that you did not say exactly that. In any case, I am sure you managed somehow to reassure him, the git is rather insecure when it comes to expressing his feelings. So, thank you.” John comprehends Sherlock as well.

Mycroft is internally smiling. Yes, his brother has found a good partner indeed. “My brother has asked me to officiate the ceremony. However, it depends whether you consent to it too. If you are not amenable to the idea, I have a lot of colleagues who could do it on my behalf.”

“Oh thank God,” John exclaims. “I was already worrying about the etiquette and what I am supposed to do with the Holmes family. I was sure I was going to make a fool of myself. Having you officiate it is a big relief, you need to tell me what I have to do please, in detail.”

“It is nothing very complicated, Dr Watson, believe me. We have time to discuss all the details. My advice now is to go to find my brother, because honestly I do not believe he has really relaxed without hearing a clear and loud “yes” from your side. And a nervous Sherlock can be unpredictable and uncontrolled.”

“I will Mycroft; he can be a loose cannon indeed. I was already going to Bart’s. Please tell Greg that tonight pints are on me.”

“I will. Goodbye, Dr Watson.” Mycroft ends the communication and gives the phone back to Greg, who is still grinning, sitting on the bed. He tosses the proffered phone on the bed and gets closer to nuzzle his neck.

“Mmmmmm, so Sherlock did it.”

“It seems so, my dear.”

“Is the officiant of the ceremony allowed to bring a plus one?” Greg is intent on removing his shirt.

“Why shouldn’t I be allowed to bring a plus one? Of course, Gregory, and there is no doubt that Sherlock and John are going to invite you anyhow.” Greg is now fighting with his pajama trousers.

“And will they be Holmeses, Watsons, Holmes-Watsons or Watson-Holmeses?” Greg’s clothes are quickly finding their way to the floor too.

“Why are you all of a sudden so interested in the nuptials of my broth… ooohhh!”


	9. Chapter 9

Maybe asking Greg to come to the checkup was not the best idea. Mycroft feels too irky and twitchy to manage to hide all his nervousness. His fear and anxiety slip through his mask and Greg absorbs all the hints he reveals, getting a complete picture of the situation. Gentle warm brown eyes are often watching him, caressing his body with their intense looks, as if they autonomously understand his need for reassurance.

He warily eyes Greg, who is driving calmly and professionally towards London Bridge Hospital. Mycroft is trying so hard to be a decent partner, but it seems that life does not want to give him a chance. Maybe it is not his destiny. Mycroft has never believed in fate, he has always thought that people can channel their own existence, but he is close to changing his mind, in particular because life has been hammering the opposite opinion into his head so often in these last months.

“Can you tell me what I should expect to happen?” Greg queries.

He is good at details, so he can gladly describe the routine, maybe it will help relax the grip that he feels on his stomach. “As you know, I had the blood test two days ago. The results should already have been forwarded to the hospital. First, I will be subjected to a MRI, followed by a visit to the neurosurgeon. Then I will see the oncologist in case the chemotherapy needs some adjustments in view of the blood test results, followed by the opinion of the rehabilitation therapist head and finally by Dr Vishakha, who will look at all gathered data for the final evaluation. It will take the whole morning, unfortunately.”

“Don’t worry,” replies Greg, swiftly moving in the heavy traffic of central London, “I have taken a day off. After the check-up, we go home together.”

It is enough to listen to the calm, reassuring voice of his partner to feel better. Despite everything, Mycroft smiles. He was not aware that calling someone “his partner” could have been so joyful and fulfilling.

At the hospital, Mycroft quickly disappears into a room with gigantic machinery surrounded by doctors. Greg cannot join. They are then directed by other doctors to another room, where Mycroft has to stand up, pirouette, touch his nose, walk and sit down again. He is touched, moved, manipulated, examined, rummaged, not to mention the endless questions. All Greg can do is sit on a plastic chair and watch his partner be manhandled and become exhausted. It seems to go on forever. A kind nurse takes pity on the police officer’s despairing look because she brings him some coffee. Astonishingly, the coffee is good, a smooth, almost sweet taste of Arabica titillates Greg’s taste buds and partially replenishes his reservoir of patience. After Mycroft has been finally, weighed, measured, probed and tested, they can move to Dr Vishakha’s office.

Mycroft is almost scared and looks at Greg with apprehension. “Do you want to go in alone? I can wait here.” Mycroft is a very private person and Greg does not want to push him too far, it is already enough as it is. Mycroft exhales and directs a thankful look towards him. “It will not take too long,” he says, and rolls towards the door.

After indeed a short while, Mycroft exits the room with the wheelchair, exhausted but sporting a brilliant smile on his face. They do not have to say anything, the meaning is clear. Greg forces himself not to touch Mycroft, he knows that his lover does not like public displays of affection and ~~a~~ light contact would be enough to open the dam of his feelings.

Greg probably breaks several traffic rules to get home quickly. When the door of their house is closed behind them, Greg bends down, cups Mycroft’s face with his hands and snogs him till they are both breathless.

***

Greg has been quiet during the whole dinner. Mycroft feels that there is something wrong, but he cannot pinpoint it. He is trying to deduce the cause of the concern via exclusion analysis. Nothing regarding work or Sherlock. Maybe…

“I…I am sorry.” Greg’s admission shakes Mycroft from his thoughts.

Mycroft looks at him perplexed. “You are sorry for what?”

Greg looks sincerely embarrassed. “I can’t get enough of you. I think sooner or later you will reach the conclusion that I am a sex maniac or some sort of pervert.”

Mycroft cannot believe at what he is hearing. “I should think that you are a pervert because you want to make love to me almost every day?”

Greg flushes. “Yes. I know that I am not 20 anymore, but you turn me on. I really really desire you.”

“Why do you think this should bother me?”

Greg is looking down at his lap. “I don’t know, I mean, maybe you think it is not appropriate or that I am too demanding or-“

“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupts, because a frightening possibility has just coalesced in his brain, “did I refuse you unknowingly? Did I show not enough appreciation for your interest in me? Am I...” Mycroft swallows “…not passionate enough in bed?” He feels his cheeks reddening. He is the Ice Man, after all. How can a lover find him passionate?

Greg remains silent, fidgeting with the cutlery.

“Did you talk to my mother?” Mycroft questions with a cold voice.

Greg opens his mouth, closes it, and breaths deeply. “She phoned this morning, while you were having your therapy session. It seemed that she just wanted to chat and discuss Sherlock and John’s wedding. She was very happy and kind at the beginning, very enthusiastic. I thought maybe things between us could change. Then she ended up telling me about your childhood…” Greg trails off, incapable of continuing, as he ~~saw~~ sees the look of horror on Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft drops the cutlery and puts his hands on the table, palms down. “And?”

Greg is very nervous, his voice lacks steadiness. “She told me you have been always an isolated kid, you didn’t like human contact and display of emotions. That you thought physical contact was annoying and feelings were a weakness ….and I am the opposite, Mick! I touch, hug, and love you physically. I constantly show my feelings, without filters.  This is what I am and maybe... you are distressed by all this, by my continuous demands, by my touchy-feely attitude…” 

"Gregory, listen,” Mycroft’s face turns very serious, his voice grave. Greg finally looks up at him. “I have spent my life, my whole life, thinking I was unlovable. I thought all parents treated their kids like my parents treated me. But when Sherlock and Euros were born, I noticed the difference in their behavior. I thought it was my fault, I was not good enough in anything. I was fat, clumsy, ginger, full of freckles and awkward. When I grew up, I lost some weight and dyed my hair, however the story remained the same. No one was interested in knowing me for who I was, only for what I could provide in terms of money and power. I thought my body was ….ugly, my personality undesirable; only my brain was to be valued. I accepted all that. At the lowest point of my life, when even my brain decided to betray me, you happened. You forced me out of my shell and simply flooded me with selfless care, attention, respect…love.” Mycroft pauses, studying Greg’s expression. “I am not good with feelings, Gregory. I will never be a lover as passionate and zealous as you are.” Mycroft felt like he is walking on eggshells, all his insecurities coming back and preventing him from saying anything anymore. Greg probably felt it and covered one of his hands with his. Olive skin over pale one. “I … I am happy, Gregory.” A big lump positioned itself in Mycroft’s throat and did not want to move.  

Greg rises and gathers him in a tight hug from the side of the chair where he is sitting. “I need to be sure that if I do something you don’t like or if I am pushing too much….you will tell me to stop,” he whispers in his ear.

“Rest assured, Gregory,” Mycroft runs a hand in the silver locks, “I did not reach the position I have accepting other people will without fighting.” Mycroft tilts his head backwards searching for Greg’s lips, which eagerly seal his in a kiss.  

***

Mycroft thought it was a lesson learned. He sincerely hoped that Greg understood the nature of his parents. Next Saturday, however, he knew something was amiss. After the end of his morning therapy session, he did not hear the usual noises from the kitchen ~~neither~~ or smell the usual aromas. On Saturdays, Greg cooks; he wants to welcome him home. _Maybe he ordered some takeaway? Or there was an emergency and he has been called at the Met?_ Then, he hears voices coming from the living room and his heart skips a beat: Gregory and his mother are conversing. His first reaction is to scream, however he manages to control and steady himself.

He rolls into the living room, the electric noise of the wheelchair alerting the others of his presence and they both turn their heads at his entrance. Greg and his mother are sitting on the couch, there are documents on the coffee table in front of them. The inspector is very pale while his mother has a smug look on her face.

“Good morning, mother,” Mycroft acknowledges his mother’s presence. He turns towards Greg. “I am back a bit earlier than usual.”

Mycroft notices that there is a barely contained rage as well as sorrow in Greg’s eyes. _Please, no, not again._

“Good morning, Mycie,” his mother greets. “I was having a lovely conversation with your friend, the detective inspector. But I have just realized how late it is and I need to rush home to instruct the cook to prepare lunch for me and your father.” His mother cheerfully rises and prepares to leave. She is not yet used to (she probably does not want to get used to), Mycroft’s wheelchair, so she looks at it with scorn and contemplates a suitable farewell tactic. She decides for a pat on Mycroft’s shoulder and Greg escorts her to the entrance door.

Mycroft retreats to the kitchen and cannot hear what they say before the door is closed.

Greg approaches him, the fury previously restrained now unleashed. “Why, why on earth have you done this?” Greg is now quickly pacing, frantically moving his arms and almost shouting, while Mycroft is standing up with the help of the rollator. “I thought we had agreed on honesty! I don’t ask to know your classified governmental information, but when it comes to us, to our relationship, I bloody want, I request, to be informed!”

Mycroft is ice-cold, barely moving. His voice does not betray any emotion. “Gregory, I have no idea of what you are talking about.”

Greg runs to the living room to fetch the papers and throws them on the kitchen table. “I am talking about this, the house! How the hell all of a sudden I became co-owner of this damn house?! It is worth a fortune! And I knew nothing, nothing, about it!” Greg’s eyes are spitting fire.

Mycroft stays still, only slightly clenching his jaw. Typical of his mother to find ~~it~~ out and use it for her purposes. “It was going to be my present to you. For our anniversary in 40 days.”

Greg widens his eyes and seems to regain partial control. “Mycroft, our anniversary? It is not in 40 days. We have been together for less than 7 months now so …. Well it depends when you consider our relationship started, but in any case…”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Our first kiss, in my office. Before all this.” He pauses, sighs and continues to explain. “When I asked you to live with me, four months ago, I also asked you to feel as if this home was yours. I wanted to make it really yours.”

“But Mycroft, this is way too much! I can’t accept something like this, ~~in~~ especially when it seems that the rest of your family believes I am here because of your money! Your mother just asked how much money I wanted to get out of your life!”

Mycroft grips the handle of the rollator with all his strength and starts shivering. Years of suppressed rage and frustration are boiling up and threaten to surface together. Why, why is his mother trying to take away the most beautiful, honest, sincere thing he has ever had? Suddenly, Mycroft vomits all over the kitchen floor, partially over the rollator too. It is not over, a second ejection stains Mycroft’s suit all over.

Greg sees that Mycroft’s right hand has no grip anymore on the rollator’s handle and he is losing balance. _Please, Lord, not a seizure._ Greg runs toward him to catch him before he falls on the floor and makes it just in time. He lifts Mycroft in bridal style, not caring about the stomach matter splattered all over, which is dripping on his clothes.

He brings Mycroft to the bathroom and places him on the chair created in the bathtub so that he is supported on three sides. Mycroft looks confused, but he is quickly regaining full consciousness. Maybe there is no need to rush to the ER.

Greg starts removing their clothes, and throws them on the ground. Later, he will put them in a plastic bag and will evaluate whether they are worth dry-cleaning, but not now. 

“Mick, may I wash you?”

Mycroft whimpers. “I apologise.”

Greg enters the bathtub too, and kneels in front of him. “I should not have attacked you in that way. I was furious, I really felt betrayed. I should have waited for your explanation before jumping on you in that way.”

“I should not have changed the ownership of the house without discussing it with you beforehand. I just wanted to surprise you.” Mycroft replies.

“I understand your good intention. It is just that…it is too much. And the comments ~~of~~ from your mother …. She made me feel ~~I~~ ~~felt~~ like I am taking advantage of you. And this is not true, Mick.”

“You will not accept it, then?” Grey-blue eyes are looking at him with sadness and embarrassment.

“Love, it has been a stressful morning, we both need a nice hot shower and a long rest in bed. In between, I will prepare something to eat, and we can eat it in bed. Can you wait till tomorrow for that question?”

Mycroft nods and lets himself be washed by the gentle experienced hands of Greg. Dried and wrapped in a warm blanket that Gregory has fetched, Mycroft is transported, notwithstanding his protests, to bed in his lover’s arms. 

“Now stay here all comfy, while I go back to the kitchen to clean the mess. I will bring back the rollator and something to eat.”

After a while, Greg comes back with his rollator which supports a tray with some yogurt, fruits, toast and jam, all easy to digest.

“Thanks a lot, Gregory. I am sorry for all the inconvenience I have caused. Can we wait a bit before eating? I do not think that my stomach is ready yet to be refilled.” Mycroft still looks self-conscious.

“Of course,” Greg replies, stopping the rollator and tray at the footrest. “But no delay in resting now.” He removes the T-shirt and shorts he ~~has~~ put on after the shower and crawls under the duvet.

Mycroft's left hand slowly but firmly touches him, just with the fingertips, asking, questioning. Greg extends his arm, interlaces their fingers and they stay like this for a while, breathing slowly and regaining their internal balance. After few minutes, their breathing rhythms match.

Greg turns and gets closer, puts his forehead against Mycroft’s and looks him in the eyes. “I love you like I’ve never loved anyone before.”

Mycroft studies Greg’s eyes for a little while. Greg knows that he is probably reading all his secrets, but he does not care. “I love you too,” Mycroft whispers after he has finished his deductions.

Greg’s heart exults and waves of happiness are permeating his body, he would like to kiss his Mick, but he feels that Mycroft has not finished speaking yet.

Indeed, Mycroft continues. “I…I haven’t said this to anyone. Ever.”

“Anyone?”

“Anyone.” An image of Sherlock appears in Mycroft’s brain, filthy and deadly thin, in the floor of an alley, a syringe sticking out from his arm. He shivers. “I wanted to say it to Sherlock. Twice,” Mycroft confesses, voice very low. “It did not happen.”

“It is never too late, Mick.”

“I am not so convinced,” the official says with sorrow.

“Your relationship with Sherlock is changing. He is getting much closer to you. Give him time, there will be an occasion in which telling him that you love him will be natural.”

“Do you really believe in what you have said?”

“I do.”

Mycroft looks at him with wonder. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For loving me. For teaching me how to love.”  

This is the right time to kiss the man and Greg takes it. The kiss is gentle and reassuring, he is trying to pour all his feeling in it. He wants Mycroft to feel cared for. It is a kiss to tell him that his admission of love has been deeply noted and …that he will try to deserve it. His body of course reacts at Mycroft’s proximity, and he quickly gets an erection, but he is trying not to rub it on his lover. Who notices.

“Please, make love to me,” Mycroft murmurs.

“Mick, no. After these episodes, you can’t come. Your brain will take a while before getting back to normal. Just don’t worry about it, it is a reaction, it will go away.”

“Take me, Gregory.”

Greg raises his head and looks the former redhead in the eyes. “Are you sure?” Mycroft seems to be determined.

“I know that I will not orgasm, Gregory, and probably I will not even have an erection. However, this does not prevent me from enjoying you. The pleasure of having you inside me is immense, regardless of the status of my synapses. It is the difference between having sex and making love. You explained it to me.”

Greg obliges and he uses all the care he is capable of to prepare and open Mycroft.

Mycroft is delighted that his penis is only half-full and nerve transmission is not properly functioning. He has never felt the thrusts of Greg inside him so well. He can experience the penetration in all details, without being fogged by his own lust. The moment in which Greg comes inside him, shouting his name, will be imprinted in his memory for all his life.

***

On Sunday, during their cosy lie-in, Mycroft dares to ask whether he should cancel his co-ownership of the house. He fears another violent reaction from Greg, but the policeman stays quiet, thinking while hugging him in bed.

“I will never be able to repay you, Mick. I will never earn enough.”

Mycroft looks at him, at this gentle man who does not realize how miraculous he is. “I will never be able to repay you for what you have done for me, Gregory. For all the nights you stayed awake because you were fearing for my life. For all the fluids you cleaned because I vomited or made some other mess. For the patience you have taking care of my limitations and for teaching me how to be in a relationship. For accepting me as I am and not wanting something different out of me. I will never be able to give you anything of the same value. The house is just …. money. And I have enough.”

Greg looks at Mycroft and they lock their eyes. The police officer seems convinced, but after a few seconds, some additional concerns surface. “What about your mother?” 

Mycroft bites his lip, but a groan anyhow escapes. He looks at Greg with pleading eyes. “Please, don’t let her ruin…this.” While saying the sentence, Mycroft interlaces his fingers with Greg’s.

“I won’t,” and Greg kisses Mycroft on the forehead.   

***

“Mycroft is definitely not going to Egypt, Anthea!”  Greg is looking at Mycroft’s assistant as if she is delirious.

“But Inspector! He is the only one with the skills to solve the situation. And we are supposed to stay there only two nights, no more! He will be back in a blink of an eye!” Anthea does not need any approval from Lestrade, however she knows that his endorsement is necessary for Mycroft’s well-being.  

“Never! You want to bring Mycroft ~~in~~ to a country with poor hygienic conditions, wild animals, in streets that are not made for his wheelchair, danger-“

“Greg, wild animals? We are staying in Cairo, not in the middle of the Amazonia forest! Good Lord, he will sleep in five stars hotels with all hygiene necessary! And he will be transported by car everywhere, he is not alone in the street with the wheelchair. When it comes to security, he has the best this Kingdom can offer.”

“No.”

“Don’t be stubborn!”

“Stubborn is my second name.”

Anthea decides to change approach. “Think about his self-esteem. Being able to go out of the country again, on a diplomatic mission. I will make sure that he works a maximum of 5 hours per day and that all his needs are met. It will help his confidence.” She sees a change is Greg’s posture, so she continues, “and he would like to do it! He said that of course he has to discuss it with you, but he also said that he is willing to go back to active duty, if needed. He even seemed positively disposed to it.”

This time Greg waits before stating some objections. It is clear that he has plenty of them on the tip of the tongue. However…he exhales and dictates, “You will be with him, always.”

“Yes.” Anthea smiles.

“4 hours, not 5.”

“4 and ½.”

“Mmmm. And a Skype call every day. Plus constant detailed information about the situation via text.”

“Deal done!” Anthea offers her hand and Greg squeezes it.

Suddenly, Greg pulls her hand and hugs her. “Please take care of him,” he whispers.

“I will.”

Greg spends the next three days constantly watching the screen of his mobile, checking for the presence of new emails and eating the most obnoxious comfort food he is able to find. His brain cannot stop depicting the most disastrous apocalyptic scenarios regarding the diplomatic mission involving his Mick, alien invasion included. He knows he is ridiculous, but he misses the man badly. A bit less than 11 months under the same roof, always seeing each other, may have funny consequences on the their emotions. In particular when one of the ~~two~~ them is chronically ill and immunosuppressed.  It does not help that he receives regular updates stating that everything is proceeding in the best possible way and that they will be home soon, as planned.

On the third day, Sally is ready to kick him in the ass. He is shouting for no reason, cannot concentrate and he is just driving the team mad. After the third scoff from Sally, he decides to call it a day and drives home. He needs to get busy with something physical, so he decides to rearrange the furniture ~~of~~ in the living room. There are places difficult for Mycroft to reach in the wheelchair and, with ~~a~~ careful planning of the New furniture positions, he thinks he can give the man enough room to move easily everywhere. He changes clothes, puts on his shorts and – without shirt – starts lifting and moving around stuff. 

Greg does not know how much time has passed, he is soaked in sweat and his arms are aching, but he has not been thinking about Mycroft and his mission till he hears the entrance door open ~~ing~~. He stops everything and runs toward it. Mycroft is rolling in with the wheelchair, he looks tired but fine, …. and he doesn't even have time to close the door when a substantially naked man lowers both armrests of the wheelchair and places himself on his lap. The silver fox is hugging him so tight that breathing becomes difficult. “Gregory…” Kisses are peppering his head. “Gregory…” he tries louder. Hands are touching his body everywhere as if to check whether there is any piece missing. Mycroft feels butterflies in his stomach. He was missed. He was missed a lot. “Gregory!” Greg freezes. Mycroft smiles and wrinkles his nose: “You stink.” Greg throws his head backwards and starts laughing. 

***

Mycroft is definitely fretting. He is incredibly nervous, jumps at the slightest sound and is very often lost in his thoughts. He even forgets some of the tasks he has to carry out, which for Mycroft is almost a sin. Greg is aware that the 12 months checkup date is approaching, and like at all checkups Mycroft is nervous, but this is well beyond what he has seen up to now. Greg does not understand what the extra cause of distress could be.

Greg starts seriously worrying when Mick stops eating decently, remains silent most of the time and shuts himself in the office for several hours. Maybe the man is concocting a secret coup in a foreign country or maybe he is relapsing into old self-destructive behaviour. Greg needs to know which option applies.

He arrives at home on a Wednesday evening finding Claude completely distraught in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Strangely, Mycroft has not been cooking for a couple of weeks.

“Claude, what is going on?” he asks, after having removed his jacket in the hallway.

“He does not eat, Mr Lestrade, he does not eat! Today I managed to force in his mouth two salad leaves and a cup of tea. He cannot survive with that, he is already seriously underweight. He is also getting weaker; the therapist has noticed it too today. I don’t know what is going on and how to help him.  He simply sits at his desk all day typing and reading on that damn laptop.”

“Let me take care of it and go home please. It is late.”

“I have almost finished, Mr Lestrade. I am making his favourite chocolate pudding, one of the few sweets he can eat without consequences. Will you serve it to him?”

Greg is constantly astonished by the kindness of this woman, mother of two, always hard working and taking care of others and her family. “I will Claude, I will. I can also manage the final stirring, I can cook, trust me. It is really late, please, go.”

Claude is convinced to leave, although she keeps mumbling intelligible words all the time, worryingly eyeing the door of Mick’s office. It is already past 8 p.m., but the door is closed. Greg decides that it is time to intervene; he knocks on the door and shouts “Love, time for dinner.”

He hears a stern answer, “Not yet, I am busy. You can start without me.”

Greg decides to enter the room.

Mick gives him an annoyed look from the desk. “I said I am coming later.”

“No.”

Mycroft frowns and assumes his oh-I-am-in-power-here stance. Luckily, Greg is now immune to it. He does not wait for his partner's retort, he glances at the desk and at all the printouts scattered around, containing histograms, statistical reports and graphs and quickly comprehends the situation.

“Stop googling.”

Mick looks offended. “I am not googling!”

“Well, then stop reading any data that has to do with cancer!”

“This is not “any data”, Gregory. These are the latest official statistics on recurring cancers and survival rates in patients who had Anaplastic Acrocytoma, divided by age and gender. These, for example,” and he points at a diagram “are the survival rate curves for males above 50.” He puts one of his long elegant fingers on a specific dot on a graph. “This is the recurrence rate of cancer after one year: above 50%.”

Greg swallows. “And after 10 years?” Mycroft shuffles through his papers.

“I only have the survival rate after 10 years: 10.9%.”

“OK, how many people as intelligent as you or more are present in the world?”

Mycroft frowns, not understanding the link with the previous topic. “If you mean that intelligence is equal to IQ, then 0.2%.”

“I am more than sure that this 0.2% falls in the 10.9% of before.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Gregory, there is no correlation between the IQ and the survival rate after a type III brain cancer in the world male population.”

“Are you sure? Show me such a graph where the population is divided by IQ and number of deaths.”

Mycroft blinks a couple of times. “I do not have such a graph because there is no need to have-“ his sentence is interrupted by a loud growl from his stomach.

“You don’t have any statistical proof that there is no correlation, Mick, so for all you know, I could be right. On the other hand, I am 100% sure that, if you keep on not eating well, you will end up in hospital dehydrated and malnourished. Would you be so kind as to spare me such a trip to the ER?”

The redhead flushes embarrassed and follows Greg to the kitchen.

***

They are lying in bed; Greg has already had his eyes closed for a while and is ready to sleep. “And if the cancer has returned?” a feeble voice asks, cutting the silence.

Greg knows that he has to be the strong, stable one of the two. He cannot deny what he feels, however. He scuttles closer to his partner and watches his profile in the moonlight. “Mick, I am scared too. I would not love you if I were not. This,” and he waves his hand in the small space formed between their bodies, “is not so common to find.”

“Is it not?” the sincerity and wonder in Mycroft’s small question ignites a fire in Greg’s heart.

His hand moves on Mycroft scalp and rests on the back of his head.

“I love your heart, Mycroft. I love your gorgeous body and I love your caring soul. I love your amazing brain too.” He slowly contours the scar in the skin with his fingertips. “If this” and Greg taps the scar “should come back, we will fight, as we have done up to now. I won’t give up. I won’t give you up. You just mean too much to me.”  He swallows. “I will need help too, probably. But we will make it.”

Greg notices Mick’s eyes begin to water, so he moves the man and brings his head close to his chest. He knows that Mycroft would not be happy to be seen crying.

If someone asked Greg when he realized that he wanted to be with Mycroft regardless, Greg could respond that that night was the turning point when he toppled over all remaining resistance.  

***

Greg now is aware of the procedure so he selects a good chair in the hospital, makes himself as comfortable as possible and prepares himself for the long wait. This time he even asks a passing nurse where the coffee machine is, and the nurse points to a small room that functions as a kitchen, where a professional coffee machine, including a grinder, is located. Heaven. After a couple of coffees and a higher number of hours, Mycroft shows up, tired and slightly distressed.

“Would you come with me to Dr Vishakha?”

Greg was not expecting the question, but he immediately nods. He follows Mycroft, who is rolling towards the doctor’s office. Before entering, he abruptly halts and looks at Greg. “I love you,” he whispers as if saying it aloud would make the feeling disappear. He does not even wait for an answer and knocks at the door.

“Come in,” the doctor says.

The doctor’s smile says it all. They sit down in front of her desk, Mycroft moving from the wheelchair to the chair with Greg’s help, and look at the thick file labelled “Mycroft Holmes” that Dr Vishakha has in front of her.

“Mr Holmes, no sign of recurring cancer in your MRI.”

A sigh of relief escapes from both of them.

“I would like to move your next check-ups to a one every 4 months schedule.” The doctor looks at other pages in the file. “The chemotherapy is over; however I still recommend physical therapy every week, at least once. I do not think your mobility will further improve, but you need to keep what you have, which means keeping your muscles trained, even with electro stimulation. Besides this, just continue with your antiepileptic medications and general supplements. You could force yourself to eat more; a couple of extra kilos would not be unwelcomed.”

Mycroft is already angling towards the wheelchair, when Greg starts speaking.

“Doctor, sorry, but….can you just give me an idea of what I will be confronted with in the future?”

Mycroft freezes on the spot.

Dr Vishakha closes the file and gazes at Greg intently. “Mr Lestrade, I am an oncologist, not a fortune teller, so I do not have a crystal ball with which I can predict the future.” She pauses, looks back at the file and then at the two men in front of her. “I am sure that Mr Holmes has seen all the available data about his illness, including statistics.” Greg grins and nods, causing a smile on the Doctor’s face. “This type of cancer unfortunately has the tendency to….come back.” She tightens her lips. “However, in your case, Mr Holmes, you had a gross total resection during surgery which has left you almost paralyzed but has increased your chances of survival. Further, you had an IDH1-mutant astrocytoma, which is also definitely good news. My personal gut feeling, not binding, is that ….there are worse situations than yours.”

Greg has not finished yet. “Are there things that he should avoid?”

“I think Mr Holmes can be the best doctor of himself. When he feels that something is “too much”, when he feels he is putting too much pressure to on his brain and body, he should stop. My advice is to avoid any strenuous activity when he feels tired.”

“And…uhm ….sex?” Greg asks, slightly embarrassed.

The doctor laughs, a bit of mirth showing in her big brown eyes. “As much as the two of you want, Mr Lestrade. “ She pauses. “This life is yours, Mr Holmes. Use it. I have patients who are coming to their yearly check-up after 20 years from their first diagnosis. I don’t know what your story will be, but please write it, don’t step back and let life pass in front of you. I think you have something to look forward to,” and she winks at Greg who blushes. 

The consultation is over, no more questions are left that come to their minds. Admittedly emotionally exhausted by the discussion and by its implications, they both are eager to leave and go home. Deep down Greg feels relieved, although somehow he also feels guilty for having this sensation. He knows that there is no definitive treatment or cure, or an otherwise experimental trial possible. Mycroft cannot go back to who he was before the cancer, he cannot have all his physical abilities back, but his brain capabilities are substantially intact and there is hope, a non-negligible one. 20 years are possible, the probability of getting them is not zero and Mycroft is willing to fight.

The screeching noise of a moving chair brings him back to reality. Right. Greg helps Mycroft to rise from the chair and to move into his wheelchair, trying to carry most of his weight without showing it. Mycroft's steps are dragging more than usual, so pain must be involved somehow after all that manipulation. They thank the doctor, who invites them to schedule the next appointment with her secretary at the reception desk. Mycroft rolls outside and he follows, keeping a hand on Mick’s shoulder while meandering through the private hospital ward. The ward is overcrowded with doctors and nurses going back and forth doing their jobs, and a few patients with haunted faces and their visitors. 

Mycroft steers the wheelchair with his good hand, avoiding the passers-by. They need to stay close to each other to not block the way. Greg’s hand brushes against Mycroft’s biceps and Mycroft grabs it, intertwining their fingers. It is the bad hand, Greg realizes, he must be using all his strength to keep hold on it. After a few minutes, realization dawns: they are in a hospital, in public, and Mycroft is holding his hand and not letting it go.

Greg halts, forcing the wheelchair to stop with him. Mycroft gives him an inquiring look. They are both tired and definitely in need of a rest after the stress of the day, but even faced with Mycroft exhaustion's Greg does not move. There are moments in life when a person simply has to act and be brave, because doing nothing might mean regretting it for the rest of  their life. Greg looks into Mycroft’s eyes, then at their connected hands, then back to his eyes.

“I want these 20 years, Mick. All of them,” he says, keeping eye contact.

“They might be 20, Gregory, or only 1, we don’t know it and you are aware of all the risks involved,” Mycroft whispers back, sadness showing in his features.

“I know, I know, we have discussed it many times, and we have just learned about possible future operations, therapies, whatever. I am asking you to spend the remaining time we have, together," he replies. Mycroft widens his eyes.

“Are you asking me for a commitment?” he says with a slightly trembling voice, the volume of which is higher than before.

“I am,” Greg confirms, scrutinizing Mycroft’s face for any sign of discomfort.

Mycroft voice is uneven and displays concern. “Isn’t it a bit rushed? Have you considered all the implications of having a handicapped, chronically ill man with you all the time? What about your quality of lif-”

“Mick, yes or no?” Greg interrupts with a determination in his voice that speaks volumes of his feelings.

Mycroft looks at the ground and then back at Greg. There is a suffused pink color embellishing his otherwise incredibly pale cheeks and ears. “Yes.” At this, Greg simply moves forward, puts his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair and kisses Mycroft, who moves the good hand on his hair and kisses him back.

At the end of the hallway, Anthea is watching the scene. She is there to bring the Inspector and her boss home and debrief him during the journey. Queen and Country still need her boss’ skills and, before a complete transfer of tasks can be performed, many decisions have to be made. She hopes Mr Holmes is willing to work for several years more, if his health so allows. She grins at the sight of a grey-haired man bent over a wheelchair soundly snogging her beloved boss, who answers in kind, in the middle of a hospital ward, completely ignoring their surroundings. Finally. And if someone wants to complain about it, she is more than willing to deport them to Antarctica.      

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to my wonderful beta brooklyn09 (read her stories, she is great!) and to the few who liked this story. Unfortunately, it is very close to home for me, and in my intention I wanted to send a bit of hope to those who find themselves in a difficult situation! I hope for some I managed!


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